:\OBBES 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNI 
AT    LOS  ANGELES 


A^- 


l^ 

CL 


JOHN    OLIVER    HOBBES. 


THE  GODS,  SOME  MORTALS^ 
AND   LORD  WICKENHAM 


BY 


JOHN  OLIVER  HOBBES     r 

AUTHOR    OF    SOME    EMOTIONS    AND    A    MORAL,     ETC. 


N  M  W     Y  ()  \i  K 

L).     APPLE  TON    AND    COMPANY 

1895 


Copyright,  1804, 
Bv  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


■  t    t      t    c   * 


"PR 

CI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 
V. 


An  aristocratic  household 

Which  contains  a  brief  welcome,  a  little  history, 

AND    A    long    farewell 

Lord  Wickenham    ...... 

In  which  Warre  displays  a  forgotten  talent 


An  excursion  into  the  sordid  and  a  fl 

rhetoric 

VI.  A  little  love;  a  little  science. 
VII.  A  soliloquy  during  the  small  hours 
VIII.  Contrition  in  the  robust 
IX.  Mortal  happiness    . 
X.  A  wedding 
XI.  Two  men  and  two  wives 
XII.  Disillusion 

XIII.  Reality     .... 

XIV.  More  realities 
XV.  Plain  facts 

XVI.  A  prelude 
XVII.  The  unlovely 
XVIII.  Wickenham 
.\IX.  'liiE  unspoken 
XX.  In  which  Warre  reasons  while  Anne  reads 
XXI.  In  whk  h  the  author  speaks 
XXII.  Ali,K(;ka 

XXIII.  Accidents  and   ihe  iNLvnAin.i 

XXIV.  An  episode 

XXV.  Lord  Wickenham's  communication  to  thi 

XXVI.  The  last 

ill 


ght  into 


AT  I HoR 


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r{< i I '.an 


THE  GODS,  SOME  MORTALS, 
AND  LORD  WICKENHAM. 


CHAPTER   I. 

AN   ARISTOCRATIC   HOUSEHOLD. 

A  GUEST  was  expected  at  the  Palazzo  Vendra- 
mini.  A  large  red  man  in  a  pale  livery  many  sizes 
too  small  was  lighting  the  one  gas-lamp  which  hung 
over  the  entrance,  and  which  only  served  to  call 
vain  shadows  out  of  the  barren  gloom. 

"  Who  goes  there  ?  "  he  cried,  suddenly. 

"It  is  I,  Antonio."  The  young  girl  who  came 
forward  seemed  to  have  been  whipped  up  into  a 
fragile  existence  from  the  very  cream  of  tenderness, 
weakness,  love,  and  folly.  Ilcr  oval  face,  small  full 
lips,  and  mysterious  black  hair  had  the  romance  of 
other  centuries  than  this — something  of  the  poetic 
inhumanity  of  a  sonneteer's  mistress.  Although  her 
figure  was  not  too  sKght,  it  was  lost  in  her  loose- 
fitting  black  dress,  made  after  the  schoolroom  pat- 
tern with  a  straight,  full  skirt  and  a  bodice  pleated 


2  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

in  empty  folds.  A  chatelaine  hung  from  her  belt, 
and  the  chains  chattered  as  she  walked. 

"  The  Signor  is  late,  Contessina,"  said  Antonio. 

Allegra  blushed  and  pretended  to  be  groping  in 
her  pocket.  "  I  have  lost  my  thimble,"  she  said.  "  I 
did  not  think  that  the  Signor  was  late.  I  am  look- 
ing for  my  thimble." 

The  man  picked  up  a  broom  which  stood  in  the 
corner  of  his  lodge,  and  with  magnificent  indolence 
began  to  sweep  the  floor.  "  If  it  is  here  this  will 
find  it,"  he  said. 

Allegra  leant  against  the  balustrade  and  held  her 
hands  over  her  face — partly  to  protect  it  from  the 
dust  and  partly  to  conceal  her  expression,  which  hov- 
ered between  laughter  and  some  secret  anxiety. 

"  When  there  is  a  pilgrimage  the  trains  are  always 
late,"  said  Antonio.  "  I  wonder  the  Signor  did  not 
come  a  day  sooner." 

The  girl  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Ah,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "  I  had  forgotten  the  Pilgrimage.  He  may 
not  be  here  for  another  hour.  Why  did  I  forget  the 
Pilgrimage  ?  " 

"  They  happen  so  often,"  grumbled  the  man  ;  "  it 
is  a  cheap  way  of  getting  to  Rome.  No  wonder 
there  is  so  much  piety ! "  He  dropped  the  broom, 
stretched  out  his  arms,  and  yawned.  "  The  thimble 
is  not  here."  But  Allegra  had  already  disappeared, 
and  was  flying  up  the  stairs  like  a  bird  through  a 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  3 

cloud  of  smoke.  Antonio  could  just  hear  the  oc- 
casional flick  of  her  skirts  against  the  wall  and  the 
jingle  of  her  chatelaine.  Presently  a  door  closed  and 
all  was  silent.  Antonio  returned  to  his  lodge  and  re- 
sumed that  long  siesta,  his  existence,  which  the  duties 
of  hall-portership  so  rudely  and  intemperately  dis- 
turbed. 

It  was  not  all  cakes  and  ale  in  the  service  of  Tito, 
Count  Vendramini,  and  AUegra,  his  daughter ;  break- 
fast was  served  late  at  the  Palazzo,  and  dinner  rarely. 
The  Count  was  a  gentleman  of  military  renown,  who, 
in  his  youth,  had  married  a  poor  lady  for  love,  but 
who  now  bought  and  sold  objects  of  art  on  com- 
mission. The  fortune  he  had  amassed  by  this  means, 
however,  added  more  lustre  to  his  integrity  than 
clothes  to  his  back :  if  not  shabby,  his  raiment  spoke 
of  adventure,  and,  although  he  always  appeared  as  a 
man  of  fashion,  one  felt  that  his  tailor  was  not  so  in- 
dulgent as  his  valet  was  ingenious.  Vendramini  was 
to  be  met  at  the  best  houses ;  he  had  a  charming, 
stupid  manner,  great  fluency  in  light  conversation, 
and  none  of  that  wit  which  creates  enmity  and  ren- 
ders friendship  an  inglorious  combat.  His  eyes  only 
directed  their  gaze  on  the  finest  feature  of  each  face, 
his  ears  only  caught  the  happiest  remarks,  his  heart 
only  thrilled  at  the  noble  motive  in  every  action  ;  in 
fact,  he  was  by  nature  what  most  of  us  fail  to  become 
even  by  laborious  art — an  extremely  agreeable  per- 


4  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

son.  The  superb  desolation  of  his  Palazzo  was  the 
stately  background  of  a  career  which  one  touch  of 
cunning  would  have  made  contemptible,  and  which, 
if  the  action  had  been  less  sincere,  could  so  easily 
have  seemed  absurd.  The  great  stone  building  had 
within  its  walls  an  empty  picture  gallery,  fountains 
which  never  played,  a  garden  without  plants,  and  a 
ball-room  in  which  no  beauty  had  danced  for  fifty 
years.  Yet,  in  this  tomb  of  a  once  princely  dignity, 
the  Count  had  but  three  desires :  to  prolong  his  own 
life  to  the  utmost  limit  of  human  existence,  to  make 
one  day  a  really  good  bargain,  and  to  find  his  daugh- 
ter a  husband.  He  had  been  left  a  widower  just  at 
the  age  when  a  man  stands  in  most  need  of  a  patient, 
admiring  companion,  and  when  the  idea  of  a  second 
marriage  is  charming  to  him  in  the  same  degree  that 
his  friends  would  think  such  an  act  on  his  part  su- 
premely foolish.  Ridicule  has  a  longer  roll  of 
martyrs  than  either  love  or  religion,  and  poor  Ven- 
dramini,  being  a  man  of  ardent  whims  rather  than 
strong  passions,  contented  himself  by  wedding  in 
imagination  only  all  the  eligible  ladies  of  his  acquaint- 
ance as  they  happened  to  pass  under  his  notice.  He 
admired  them  all,  and  saw  himself  in  circumstances 
of  extreme  felicity  with  any  one  of  them  ;  each  was 
his  dear,  and  he  was  the  dearest  of  each  ;  they  were 
ever  faithful  and  he  was  ever  courtly — few  husbands 
own  such  fine  regard,  such  esteem,  such  considera- 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  5 

tion,  for  the  wives  of  their  bosom  as  the  Count  enter- 
tained for  these  partners  of  his  daily  dreaming.  But 
a  visionary  wife,  with  all  her  merits,  graces,  and 
variety,  cannot  give  advice,  and  Vendramini  wanted 
advice.  Allegra  was  now  seventeen  ;  he  only  knew 
her  as  the  one  woman  whom  it  had  never  occurred 
to  him  to  marry.  His  paternal  instinct  taught  him 
nothing  further.  He  had  been  desperately  fond  of 
her  mother,  for  she  was  pretty,  and  passionate,  and 
provoking — a  lady  who  had  the  gaiety  of  a  light  o' 
love  and  the  modesty  of  a  virgin  saint — it  was  not  in 
the  nature  of  the  man  to  tire  of  anything  so  artificial, 
so  preposterous.  He  had  first  met  her  at  Baden- 
Baden,  where,  as  the  natural  daughter  of  Lord  Den- 
borough  by  the  naughty  Duchess  of  A.,  she  won  the 
undisguised  pity  of  every  lady  born  in  lawful  wed- 
lock, and  the  sly  admiration  of  the  men.  She  pos- 
sessed great  beauty,  distinguished  manners,  and  no 
money.  It  was  very  reasonably  assumed  that  she 
would  spend  the  best  years  of  her  life  as  a  Peer's 
mistress,  and,  in  her  repentant  autumn,  marry  a 
Colonel  of  Dragoons.  When  the  Count  Vendramini 
demanded  her  hand  in  marriage,  he  took  a  candid 
pride  in  his  own  unworldliness,  which,  at  one  stroke, 
gave  glory  to  God,  annoyance  to  his  friends,  and  an 
honourable  name  to  the  only  woman  in  the  world  he 
felt  unworthy  of.  But  Allcgia  was  unlike  her  h^ng- 
lish  mother;  her  glance  was  cold  and  she  did  not  un- 


6  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

derstand  the  subtleties  of  domestic  virtue.  The 
Count  liked  to  sit  in  his  library  with  his  friend  Car- 
dinal Villard,  and  think  how  happy  his  daughter 
ought  to  be  alone  by  herself  in  the  next  room.  It 
was  insupportable  when  they  sat  opposite  each 
other,  and,  in  the  hope  of  conjuring  up  a  home-like 
atmosphere,  talked  about  the  repairs  which  they 
were  too  poor  to  effect,  the  Pope's  health,  and  salad- 
dressing.  Allegra  was  no  companion  for  a  man  who 
had  such  a  repugnance  for  plain  facts  that  he  could 
only  eat  fruit  when  it  was  crystallised.  The  care  of 
finding  her  a  husband,  however,  was  not  one  to  make 
nights  sleepless,  or  mornings  overlong.  The  girl 
was  pretty,  and  it  was  known  that  she  had  a  rich 
godmother  in  England.  Suitors  smiled  from  all 
sides ;  some  of  them  were  well  born,  many  were 
handsome,  a  few  were  not  much  poorer  than  the 
Count  himself ;  he  might  easily  have  been  be- 
wildered by  the  difficulty  of  choosing  an  appropriate 
son-in-law  out  of  the  decorative  and  decorated  mob 
which  composed  his  Saturday  receptions.  Allegra, 
unhappily,  had  no  eyes  for  these  gentlemen — she  dis- 
liked the  Italian  character,  which  was  unsympathetic 
to  her  prim,  even  prudish  mind.  She  had  been 
taught  the  proprieties  by  an  elderly  woman  who  had 
been  her  mother's  nurse,  and  whose  life  had  been 
one  undeviating  observance  of  the  genteel ;  who  was 
Protestant  in  faith,  and   Scotch  by  birth,  and   who 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  7 

exhibited  at  once  the  most  austere  traits  of  her  creed 
and  her  nation.  This  good,  if  formidable,  creature 
had  assured  Allegra  that  there  was  but  one  man 
whom  she  could  with  any  good  manners  marry,  and 
this  was  her  father's  friend — Dr.  Simon  Warre,  of 
Grosvenor  Street,  in  London.  Warre  had  spent  a 
week  at  the  Palazzo  on  several  occasions,  and  was 
one  of  the  Count's  most  constant  customers.  He 
was  forming  a  private  museum — an  expensive  hobby 
for  a  bachelor ;  it  was  a  pity  he  had  no  better  use  for 
his  guineas.  Thus  spake  spinsterial  wisdom.  He 
was  the  visitor  for  whom  Antonio  was  watching 
when  he  lit  the  lamp,  and  Allegra  came  in  search  of 
her  thimble. 


THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 


CHAPTER   II. 

WHICH   CONTAINS   A   BRIEF  WELCOME,   A   LITTLE 
HISTORY,   AND  A   LONG   FAREWELL. 

An  hour  passed.  Vendramini  grew  impatient 
for  Warre's  arrival.  There  was  a  concert  at  the 
Ouirinale  that  evening^,  and  the  social  instinct  no 
less  than  dut}'  urged  the  Count's  attendance  at  the 
Palace.  He  delayed  his  departure  till  the  walls 
could  no  longer  contain  him,,  when,  leaving  Allegra 
to  assure  his  guests  that  Court  etiquette  often  made 
one  impolite  even  to  one's  most  cherished  friends, 
he  stepped  into  his  ricketty  chariot  and  drove  away. 

When  Warre  was  at  last  announced,  Allegra 
was  waiting  alone  in  the  Salon,  a  large,  grim  room, 
bare  in  spite  of  its  green  silk  hangings,  and  dingy, 
with  all  its  wealth  of  tarnished  gilt.  The  girl  sat 
on  the  pompous  sofa,  her  strange  little  figure 
perched  solitary  and  self-possessed  in  its  environ- 
ment of  unrelieved  and  ghostly  melancholy — a  mel- 
ancholy made  more  funereal  by  the  scattered  wax- 
candles  which  burned  as  they,  do  in  a  chamber  of 
death,  giving  light  without  life,  and  flame  without 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  g 

cheer.  The  man  and  the  young  girl  looked  at  each 
other  with  frank  curiosity.  They  had  not  met  for 
two  years.  Warre  was  tall,  broad-shouldered,  and, 
although  not  strictly  handsome,  his  face  had  the 
heroic  intention.  His  e3'es  were  grey,  and  but  for 
the  richness  of  their  colour  would  have  been  over- 
brilliant — coldly-bright,  as  it  was,  they  formed  a  per- 
plexing contrast  to  the  rather  sombre,  even  sullen 
expression  of  his  other  features.  He  heard  Alle- 
gra's  words  of  greeting,  and  her  explanation  of 
Vendramini's  absence,  but  as  things  remote,  un- 
necessary, and  meaningless. 

"  How  you  have  changed  !  "  he  said,  abruptly. 
The  quick  blush  which  tinted  her  whole  face  was 
comparable  only  to  the  effect  of  a  little  red  wine 
poured  into  clear  spring  water.  She  made  no 
reply,  but  led  the  way  down  a  long  corridor  into 
the  dining-room.  Its  ponderous  oak  door  stood 
open  ;  he  could  see  the  window  beyond  curtained 
with  faded  silk  rep,  the  long  table,  the  carved  side- 
board of  English  design,  and  the  mirror  on  which 
two  mahogany  cupids  sat,  for  ever  drawing  aside 
a  mahogany  veil.  Allcgra  sat  facing  him,  and 
stitched  at  a  [)iccc  of  embroidery  while  he  ate  his 
su[)f)cr,  which  was  served  by  two  men,  one  of  whom 
was  evidently  new  to  the  establishment,  although 
his  livery  had  an  air  of  long  and  faithful  service. 
There  was  very  little  attempt  at  conversation.     Allc- 


JO  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

gra  was  shy,  and  Warre  was  either  so  absorbed  in 
his  own  thoughts,  or  so  bewildered  by  the  fatigue 
of  his  journey,  that  the  silence  seemed  natural  and 
pleasant.  When  he  had  finished  his  meal  she  rose 
and  wished  him  good-night. 

'*  What !  "  said  he  ;  "  must  you  go?  I  am  only 
beginning  to  know  you." 

"  I  always  go  to  bed  at  ten." 

"  Then  you  ought  to  have  been  there  two  hours 
ago.  How  good  of  you  to  sit  up  so  late  on  my  ac- 
count !  " 

"  Papa  wished  it.  I  was  very  pleased  to  obey 
him.  Good-night."  She  spoke  English  with  deli- 
cious precision,  giving  each  syllable  a  musical  value ; 
otherwise  her  accent  did  not  betray  her  Italian 
birth.  After  she  had  gone  Warre  remained  in  a 
long  reverie,  which  was  more  lively  than  sleep,  and 
yet  less  clear  than  waking.  Hitherto  he  had  always 
thought  of  Allegra  as  a  pretty  excuse  for  buying 
sweetmeats.  How  she  had  changed  !  Why  had  he 
come  to  Rome  ?  Why  had  he  brought — in  spite  of 
his  man's  remonstrances  to  the  contrary — his  dullest 
clothes  and  least  youthful  ties  ?  Why  had  he  for- 
gotten that  the  spring  air  was  warm  ?  He  had  been 
working  hard,  and  talking  a  great  deal  about  mat- 
ters which  did  not  amuse  him — or  any  one  else — in 
the  least;  he  felt  stale,  jaded,  depressed,  with  only  a 
vague  notion  that  he  would  like  to  doze  for  a  week 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  II 

or  SO  and  say  nothing.  The  Vendramini  found 
miracles  of  wit  even  in  his  yarns,  and  the  Count  was 
a  dear  fellow,  a  sweet  old  bore,  who,  after  all,  knew 
a  great  deal  about  the  Etruscan  remains.  Small 
wonder  that  Rome  should  figure  in  Simon's  mind  as 
the  city  of  repose  and  pleasant  relaxation.  How  the 
little  girl  had  changed  ! 

A  night's  rest  dimmed  the  unearthly  romance  of 
his  first  encounter  with  Allegra ;  he  almost  dreaded 
meeting  her  again,  lest  she  should  find  that  his  in- 
terest had  waned,  and  he  discover  that  her  enchant- 
ment fled  before  the  sunrise.  Man  is  ever  miserly 
with  his  illusions ;  if  to  gain  two  he  must  risk  one, 
he  shrinks  from  the  venture.  Simon  wanted  to  re- 
member Allegra  always  as  she  had  looked  when 
he  arrived.  He  took  breakfast  with  Vendramini 
and  lent  an  intelligent  ear  to  an  account  of  the  con- 
cert, a  learned  analysis  of  the  sonatas  which  were 
played,  and  a  minute  description  of  the  gown  worn 
— the  flirtation  executed — by  each  lady  present. 
The  morning  passed  in  restful  stupidity,  but  that 
d.iy,  and  during  the  days  that  followed,  he  saw 
Allegra  seldom.  Men  should  be  careful  how  they 
wish.  Warrc  could  not  think  that  she  intended  to 
avoid  him,  for  her  manner  was  always  winning,  her 
smile  invariably  sweet,  her  eyes,  when  they  met  his, 
full  of  kindness  and  sympathy.  These  unobtrusive 
graces,  though  baffling  and,  t(j  a  certain  extent,  un- 


12  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

satisfactory,  were  not  without  their  fascination  to  a 
man  who,  in  the  small  leisure  left  him  by  his  work, 
was  looking  out  for  a  wife  who  coupled  an  aristo- 
cratic lineage  with  an  humble  spirit,  and  beauty 
with  demureness.  He  himself  came  of  a  distin- 
guished family  on  his  mother's  side,  but  she  had 
married  a  man  many  degrees  beneath  her  in  the 
social  scale,  and  the  son  of  this  inauspicious  match 
had  found  it  a  bitter  task  to  assert  his  right  to  that 
society  which,  whether  rightly  or  wrongly  known 
as  the  best,  alone  consorted  with  his  taste  and  in- 
stincts. Since  his  profession  was  the  one  of  all 
others  which  demands  a  wife  as  the  sign-post  of  de- 
corum, it  was  remarkable  that  Warre  had  so  long 
remained  a  bachelor  and  had  yet  won  a  reputation 
for  prudence  and  led  a  life  of  apparent  content- 
ment, which  his  married  rivals  could  not  better,  and 
which  most  of  them  had  only  too  much  cause  to 
envy.  The  unhappy  home  of  his  childhood  and 
youth,  where  the  sordid  tragedy  of  a  disastrous 
marriage  had  played  itself  out  in  genteel  poverty, 
small  humiliations,  and  peevish  discontent,  must 
have  tired  the  poetic  aspirations  of  a  man  even 
more  resolute  to  find  the  delight  rather  than  the 
misery  of  existence  than  Simon  Warre.  His  mother 
gave  the  text  of  her  long  years  of  little  suffering 
when  she  admitted  over  her  husband's  coffin  that 
it  had  always  sounded  disrespectful  when  he  called 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  1 3 

her  by  her  Christian  name.  Warre  heard  the  re- 
mark, and  was  at  first  only  sensitive  to  the  grim 
humour  of  the  situation.  The  fine  lady  at  least 
lived  to  tell  the  tale  ;  the  boor  was  dead.  Then  he 
remembered  his  father's  good  nature,  his  deep  but 
never  satisfied  craving  for  the  kitchen  and  back- 
stairs, his  sublime  endurance  of  an  eternal  education 
in  matters  of  etiquette,  refinement,  and  the  gentle- 
manly arts,  his  meekness  under  taunts,  his  patience 
under  neglect,  his  silence  under  the  fretful  humours 
of  a  selfish  woman  who  knew  too  well  that  once  in 
her  life  at  any  rate  she  had  made  an  enormous 
sacrifice.  Simon  loved  his  mother,  pitied  her,  en- 
couraged her  arrogance.  She  possessed  the  one 
gift  which,  in  his  eyes,  atoned  for  every  shortcom- 
ing— great  personal  beauty  ;  yet,  as  he  stood  by  his 
father's  grave  and  heard  the  muttered  prayers  of 
an  impatient  curate,  the  discordant  hymn  wailed  by 
mourners  who  were  not  so  despairing  but  they 
could  shout  themselves  into  resignation  ;  when  he 
saw  the  extravagant  fears  lest  the  widow  should 
catch  cold,  and  the  frantic  desire  of  the  funeral 
guests  to  escape  from  the  vulgar  dust,  whose  glori- 
ous resurrection  had  been  pronounced  as  sure  and 
certain  in  a  considerate  undertone,  he  felt  a  fierce 
anrl  choking  shame  for  his  mr)thcr's  want  of  heart 
which  he  had  never  known  f(jr  the  dead  man's  lack 
of  breeding. 


1^  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

For  a  week  after  the  burial,  Lady  Henrietta 
Warre  found  much  to  congratulate  herself  in  the 
fact  that  she  received  letters  of  condolence  and  even 
calls  from  most  of  the  relatives  with  whom  she  had 
quarrelled  at  the  time  of  her  marriage.  But  when 
these  had  displayed  their  Christian  feeling  and  grati- 
fied their  curiosity  at  the  fact  of  learning  that  she 
lived  in  lodgings  at  West  Kensington,  and  would 
probably  need  assistance  if  she  were  once  encour- 
aged to  dine  out,  they  had  the  delicacy  not  to  in- 
trude further  upon  her  sorrow,  which,  as  they  each 
and  all  insisted,  would  of  course  be  life-long,  irre- 
mediable, and  only  to  be  endured  in  an  unbroken 
solitude.  Like  most  women.  Lady  Henrietta  learnt 
nothing  from  the  mistakes,  the  disappointments,  the 
revelations  which  each  year  brings.  She  had  no 
philosophy,  and  her  opinion  of  religion  was  so  high 
that  she  would  have  considered  it  profane  to  apply 
its  consolations  to  the  ordinary  troubles  of  a  com- 
mon day.  She  preferred  instead  to  rail  against  the 
injustice,  the  selfishness,  and  the  spite  of  every  crea- 
ture she  had  ever  met  or  heard  of,  and  to  weep  in- 
cessantly over  her  unmerited  misfortunes. 

Yet  a  worse  affliction  was  in  store  for  her. 
Simon  entered  himself  as  a  student  at  the  Imperial 
College  Hospital.  His  paternal  uncle — who  had 
married  a  draper's  shop  but  whose  love  was  science 
• — supplied  the  fees  with  plebeian  generosity,  and,  in 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  1 5 

order  to  stimulate  the  youth's  ambition,  never  failed 
to  address  him  in  the  intimacy  of  the  domestic  circle 
as  Sir  Simon  Jlarre,  Bart.,  G.C.B.,  M.D.,  F.R.S. 
Lady  Henrietta  may  not  have  been  altogether  insen- 
sible to  this  solace,  but  she  never  ceased  to  wail  her 
recollection  of  the  time  when  a  gentleman  would  no 
more  dream  of  sitting  down  to  dinner  with  his  doc- 
tor than  with  his  attorney  or  his  boot-maker.  She 
refused  to  acknowledge  that  her  son  was  under  any 
necessity  to  earn  a  penny  :  he  would  marry  a  rich 
wife,  and  then  all  his  titled  relatives  would  take  in- 
terest in  him.  He  could  go  into  Parliament.  In  the 
meantime,  she  promised  to  do  all  in  her  power  to 
thwart  the  medical  idea.  The  boy  would  often  jour- 
ney to  and  fro  the  hospital  and  West  Kensington 
three  or  four  times  a  day  in  obedience  to  her  crazy 
notes  with  reference  to  frozen  water-pipes,  insolent 
servants,  acute  headaches,  heart-seizures,  alarming 
fits  of  depression,  sudden  fears  for  his  own  health, 
and  the  like.  What  a  struggle  it  was!  What  an 
effort  to  keep  pace  with  the  other  students  !  What 
a  sickening  fight  against  time,  fatigue,  and  failure  ! 
When  he  attempted  to  work  in  the  evening  his 
mother  would  cither  flounce  out  of  the  room,  threat- 
ening suicide  as  the  one  amusement  left  her,  or  sit 
opposite  to  him  alternately  sulking,  whimpering,  and 
scolding. 

"Why   don't  you   talk?"  she   would   say;    "you 


1 6  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

take  no  interest  in  me.  I  wish  I  were  dead.  You 
think  of  nothing  but  those  disgusting  books.  I 
never  knew  anyone  so  selfish.  You  never  offer  to 
read  aloud  to  me,  and  you  know  how  I  delight  in 
Pusey's  Sermons !     I  have  devoted  my  life  to  you, 

made   every   sacrifice    for   you,   and I  am   not 

very  strong  !  "  Here  she  would  moan  in  self-pity, 
protesting  that  no  one  loved  her,  that  there  was  no 
room  in  the  world  for  an  affectionate,  loyal,  and  de- 
voted woman,  that  Simon  was  his  father's  son — 
coarse-minded,  brutal,  incapable  of  understanding  a 
lady's  disposition.  The  lad  endured  this  martyrdom 
for  three  years,  at  the  end  of  which  time  his  health 
broke  down  ;  nor  did  he  give  any  hope  of  recovery 
till  one  fine  day  a  rumour  reached  him  that  should  he 
live  it  was  Lady  Henrietta's  intention  to  signify  her 
gratitude  to  the  Almighty  by  marrying  the  vicar  of 
their  parish.  A  month  later  he  was  able  to  support 
her  ladyship  through  the  wedding  ceremony,  and  if 
there  was  any  creature  in  London  happier  than  the 
bridegroom  it  was  Simon  when  he  kissed  the  bride 
good-bye.  She  was  his  mother,  and  he  loved  her, 
but  he  felt  he  could  never  again  pass  under  the  ter- 
rible scourge  of  her  authority.  He  must  be  his  own 
master. 

He  shared  lodgings  with  a  fellow-student  near 
the  hospital,  rose  at  five  in  the  morning,  worked  till 
eleven  o'clock  at  night,  talked  to  the  patients  for 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM. 


17 


recreation,  and  earned  the  money  for  his  rent  by 
writing  humorous  articles  on  art,  politics,  and  litera- 
ture for  a  Society  journal.  Four  times  a  week,  too, 
he  attended  classical  lectures  at  the  Imperial  Col- 
lege, where  a  distinguished  scholar  hurled  instruction 
at  a  scribbling  crowd  of  youths  and  eager  women, 
who  appeared  to  write  with  their  noses  and  hear 
with  their  heels,  and  who  regarded  the  Pagan^'phi- 
losophers,  poets,  and  wits  as  terriers  do  rats.  Nor 
were  lighter  distractions  wanting.  Since  Simon  was 
a  fine-looking  fellow,  with  courtly  manners,  the  doc- 
tors' wives  received  him  gladly,  inviting  him  to  their 
less  formal  tea-parties,  treated  him — to  all  outward 
showing — as  their  social  equal.  One  of  them  even 
formed  the  project  of  marrying  him  to  her  plainest  ' 
daughter  ;  but  whether  he  did  not  suspect  her  con- 
descension, or  whether,  knowing  it,  he  was  too  mod- 
est to  accept  so  portentous  an  honour,  the  plan  mis- 
carried. 

Before  he  obtained  his  degree  he  won  a  Travelling 
Scholarship,  went  abroad,  and  returned  two  years 
later,  mysterious,  silent,  curiously  unwilling  to  offer 
any  opinion  even  on  his  own  right  to  exist.  They 
feared  he  would  come  to  nothing  ;  he  was,  therefore, 
chosen  as  the  fittest  man  for  an  assistant-lectureship 
then  vacant.  The  post  was  cheerfully  offered  :  meek- 
ly accepted.  The  Senior  Pathologist  suffcrcfl  him- 
self to  flo;^c,  sure   that   he  would   not  be  rnisstd,  sure 


ig  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

that  no  inconvenient  genius  had  arisen  to  make  him 
reconsider  the  highly  excellent  old  lectures  which  he 
had  chanted  for  twelve  years,  and  without  the  humil- 
iating fatigue  of  a  second  thought.  But  he  saun- 
tered into  the  class-room  one  afternoon  to  find  it 
over-crowded,  and  Warre  demonstrating  heresy  with 
an  eloquence  as  convincing  as  it  was  unprofessional. 
The  two  exchanged  glances,  and  at  once  compre- 
hended each  other  to  that  pitch  of  cock-sureness 
which  is  known  as  a  misunderstanding.  A  few  days 
later  Simon  sent  in  his  resignation :  the  Dean  ex- 
pressed his  regret  and  looked  his  relief :  murmured 
well-known  maxims  about  things  in  general,  and, 
with  official  tenderness,  advised  him  to  be  careful. 

In  the  following  year  Warre,  then  five-and-twenty, 
got  his  degree,  and,  under  the  inspiration  of  an  occa- 
sional square  meal,  wrote  an  Essay  which  gained  him 
a  Prize  and  an  appointment  at  the  Knightsbridge 
Hospital.  From  that  day  his  success  was  steady,  his 
ability  acknowledged ;  he  had  many  critics  but  few 
enemies,  a  large  and  amiable  acquaintance,  some  two 
or  three  staunch  friends,  and  a  baker's  dozen  of  aris- 
tocratic relatives  who,  having  ignored  him  as  a  stu- 
dent, now  found  it  amusing  to  talk  of  "  that  clever 
eccentric  cousin  of  ours  who  went  in  for  Science  and 
who  is  the  coming  man  on  Paralysis."  At  seven-and- 
twenty,  with  good  health,  good  intentions,  a  good 
reputation,  and  an  increasing  income,  one  is  not  dis- 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


19 


posed  to  be  misanthropic.  Warre  enjoyed  his  life ; 
he  thought  it  an  altogether  splendid  thing  to  be 
alive ;  talked  with  confidence  about  the  survival  of 
the  fittest,  and  declared  his  own  willingness  to  sur- 
render when  a  mightier  than  he  should  enter  the 
field.  Happiness,  he  assured  his  aged  patients,  was 
far  more  common  than  was  generally  supposed.  No 
creature  was  undeservedly  wretched  if  one  tested  his 
grievance  by  the  light  of  reason  and  the  laws  of  na- 
ture. It  was  inspiring  to  hear  him.  True,  his  rosy- 
toed  philosophy  had  not  been  forced  to  trip  over  the 
red-hot  ploughshares  of  pain  and  its  attendant  devils  ; 
but  he  knew  what  it  meant  to  be  hungry,  to  be  cold, 
to  be  sick  at  heart  and  wild  in  brain.  All  that,  how- 
ever, was  of  his  own  choosing ;  he  need  not  have 
worked,  he  might  have  stayed  quietly  at  home  with 
his  mother  at  West  Kensington,  drinking  tea,  fon- 
dling the  cat,  and  escorting  lady-callers  to  the  omni- 
bus. "  Each  man  has  two  fates,"  he  would  say  ;  "  one 
is  a  free  gift,  the  other  is  a  prize,  but  the  prize  must 
be  striven  for."  An  intelligent  youth,  this ;  wisely 
dispassionate,  on  the  best  of  terms  with  the  Almighty, 
roaring  lions,  and  the  rest ;  fearing  no  man.  The 
world,  quick  to  appreciate  audacity,  spoke  with 
confidence  oi  his  future.  He  would  vXrrivc ;  but 
where  ? 

Warre  remained  in  Rome  ten  days,  and  he  woke 
the  last  morning  to  remember  that  he  must  return  to 


20  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

that  well-furnished  emptiness  in  Grosvenor  Street  he 
called  his  home.  He  would  miss  AUegra.  Adorable 
child  !  Fairy,  angel,  poem,  picture,  melody — every- 
thing seductive,  alluring  and  inspiring  except — a 
woman.  He  could,  it  is  true,  imagine  her  as  a  kind 
of  immaterial  wife — a  sweet,  feminine  spirit  as  subtle 
as  a  sunbeam,  but,  alas  !  as  intangible.  Yet  when  he 
had  not  seen  her  for  some  hours,  and  the  remem- 
brance of  her  forbidding  innocence  was  not  too  vivid, 
he  would  be  startled  to  find  how  ardently  he  desired 
her  companionship — her  presence — how  oppressive 
the  air  seemed  when  she  was  not  near ;  how  the  mere 
sound  of  her  footstep  made  his  heart  cease  beating ; 
how  he  lost  himself  when  he  sought  to  read  her  eyes. 
All  this  distressed  him  ;  he  .had  rested,  and  was  in 
the  mood  for  exalted  sentiments,  for  love-making,  for 
marriage,  but — Allegra  was  a  little  girl  ...  a  little 
girl.  He  had  passed  through  a  few  romantic  adven- 
tures :  had  loved,  resisted,  and  regretted ;  had  loved, 
not  resisted,  and  regretted  also ;  he  had  no  over-mas- 
tering belief  in  the  permanency,  the  seriousness  of 
any  passionate  attachment  between  men  and  women. 
He  could  not,  therefore,  bring  himself  to  do  more 
than  own  that  if  Allegra  had  been  older,  and  had  be- 
trayed any  strong  regard  for  him,  he  would  have 
asked  her  to  become  his  wife,  would  have  loved  her 
better  than  discretion  might  permit  him  to  express. 
But  the  glance,  the  word,  the  movement  which  would 


AND   LORD   WICKENIIAM.  21 

have  fired  this  affection  was  not  given.  On  the  day 
of  his  departure  Allegra  was  even  more  silent,  more 
anxious  to  escape  from  sight,  than  on  the  evening  he 
arrived.  She  had  at  least  blushed  over  her  welcome, 
but  when  he  said  good-bye  her  face  was  pale  and 
inexpressive ;  she  murmured  a  hope  that  he  would 
have  a  pleasant  journey,  and  brushed  a  stray  thread 
from  her  sleeve. 

The  Count,  who  drove  with  Warre  to  the  station, 
talked  on  the  way  of  the  solitariness  of  life,  the  sor- 
row of  partings.  He  grew  sentimental  on  the  sub- 
ject of  his  own  forlorn  state,  and  the  difficulty  he 
experienced  in  understanding  Allegra.  "  She  is  so 
reserved,  so  timid,"  he  said  ;  "  it  is  impossible  to  tell 
what  is  passing  in  her  mind.  Yet  what  sum  is  too 
large  to  settle  on  a  wife  who  can  adore  without  ask- 
ing questions?  Most  women  are  so  inquisitive. 
They  mistake  curiosity  for  devotion  to  our  interests. 
Poor  Allegra!  Although  she  is  silent  I  think  she 
suffers  great  tragedies  !  " 

Warre  marvelled  that  any  man  could  be  so  mis- 
taken in  his  own  flesh-and-blood.  O,  Science !  art 
thou  not  also  sometimes  in  error? 


22  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 


CHAPTER   III. 

LORD   WICKENHAM. 

The  fancies  VVarre  had  allowed  himself  to  in- 
dulge in  under  the  spell  of  Rome — idleness  and  a 
pair  of  dark  eyes — vanished  when  he  reached  Lon- 
don. One  glance  at  the  Grosvenor  Street  house 
was  enough  to  convince  him  that  it  and  AUegra 
belonged  to  different  worlds.  The  gloom  of  the 
Palazzo  Vendramini  was  sublime  ;  but  this  neat  grey 
dwelling,  which  rested  on  the  universe  with  the 
stubborn  serenity  of  a  visiting-card  on  a  hall-table, 
had  a  dulness  worse  than  human.  Each  window, 
too,  looked  like  a  patient  eye  watching  for  the  care- 
ful housewife  who  should  be  there,  and  was  not.  As 
Warre  crossed  the  threshold  his  spirits  sank :  home- 
returning  is  a  dreary  performance  when  there  is  no 
devoted,  if  silly,  woman  to  bask  in  one's  dusty  smiles. 
Simon  thanked  God  that  he  was  dining  out  that 
evening  with  his  friend  Wickenham. 

Lord  Wickenham  was  the  only  son  of  a  saint,  by 
a  fool.     The  saint  died  young,  and  the  fool  married 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


^i 


another  husband,  who  was  considered,  perhaps  with 
justice,  a  greater  dolt  even  than  herself.  Since  it 
will  not  be  necessary  to  refer  to  either  of  them  again, 
it  may  be  added  that  these  beings  lived  to  an  ad- 
vanced age,  and  finally  departed  this  world,  leaving 
no  history,  but  two  extremely  neat  epitaphs — one  to 
the  effect  that  we  are  not  dead  until  we  are  forgot- 
ten, and  the  other  advertising  the  peaceful  end  of 
one  who  was  twice  a  widow.  Lord  Wickenham  had 
been  educated  at  Harrow  and  at  Christ  Church,  Ox- 
ford, had  made  the  Grand  Tour,  had  planted  trees, 
had  observed  the  traditions  of  his  house  with  cor- 
rectness and  good  taste.  The  Wickenhams  had  a 
horror  of  precocity  :  no  Wickenham  had  ever  w^on 
a  prize  either  at  school  or  university  ;  no  Wicken- 
ham had  ever  distinguished  himself  before  the  age 
of  forty-five  ;  no  Wickenham  but  had  been  thought  a 
dunce  for  three-fourths  of  his  career  ;  and  no  Wick- 
enham but  had  somehow  contrived  to  die,  like  Mira- 
beau,  leaving  the  world  to  wonder  what  on  earth  he 
could  not  have  accomplished  if  he  had  only  lived  a 
day  longer.  Wickenham  was  now  thirty,  and,  to 
the  alarm  of  his  relatives,  betrayed,  in  unguarded 
moments,  an  interest  in  politics  and  an  ability  in  dis- 
cussing them  not  unworthy  of  Palmerston  at  his 
worst.  A  rumour  was  also  abroad  that  he  was  tak- 
ing lessons  in  bricklaying,  vine-culture,  flute-playing, 
and  astronomy.     Had  he  any  idea  of  founding  a  new 


24  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

Empire?  The  family  took  counsel  with  Warre  ;  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  read  something  concise  on  paral- 
ysis of  the  brain  ;  bethought  themselves  of  a  Wick- 
enham  (described  in  Burke  as  "  a  learned  man  "), 
who,  in  the  thirteenth  century,  had  killed  himself 
untimely,  writing  twelve  thousand  villainous  verses, 
all  in  Latin,  on  six  hundred  different  subjects.  Two 
such  in  the  race  would  point  to  hereditary  disease — 
a  taint  of  pedagogy.  O  Heavens  !  save  our  Wicken- 
ham. 

The  process  of  salvation  was  now  in  full  swing. 
Wickenham  and  Warre  had  journeyed  together 
round  lakes  and  through  cathedrals;  had  climbed 
up  the  Alps ;  had  suffered  each  other's  sprained 
ankles  and  faced  each  other's  skinned  noses ;  knew 
each  other's  taste  in  food  ;  had  exchanged  views  on 
female  beauty  ;  were  agreed  that  a  fellow  should 
marry  the  woman  of  his  affections — when  possible  ; 
each  knew  that  there  were  events  in  the  other's 
career  which,  though  they  would  have  no  place  in 
his  biography  (to  be  published  in  three  volumes  and 
dedicated  to  a  truth-loving  nation),  had  made  im- 
perishable marks  on  his  character ;  they  were  com- 
rades. 

"  Thank  God,  I  have  got  Wickenham,"  thought 
Warre  once  more,  as  he  drove  up  to  his  friend's 
town-house  in  Gifford  Street,  Piccadilly.  His  next 
ejaculation   was   less   pious,   for,  to  his  chagrin,  he 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  2$ 

observed  a  brougham  already  at  the  door,  and  a 
lady  and  gentleman  alighting  therefrom.  He  knew 
them — Wickenham's  country  cousins— ^the  Mereford 
Maukin-Fawkeses,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  both  dull,  one  rich, 
one  mournful. 

"  Is  he  going  to  give  a  party  ?  "  groaned  Warre. 
Lo !  two  hansoms  now  blocked  the  way.  Warre's 
coachman  is  in  the  wrong;  must  turn.  The  trium- 
phant cabmen,  with  rattling  of  glass  windows  and 
banorinef  of  doors,  deliver,  first  a  man  and  next  two 
ladies.  One  lady  has  a  foot  disproportionately  small 
to  scientific  eyes — pretty,  nevertheless.  Impossible 
to  see  her  face.  But  her  petticoat,  snow-white,  has  a 
row  of  little  tucks  near  the  hem.  What  hours  must 
have  been  spent  in  stitching  them  !  The  vanity  of 
women  !  At  this  point  Simon  remembered,  with  a 
sigh  of  regret,  that  few  men  were  fit  to  be  seen  after 
two  nights  spent  in  the  sleepless  luxury  of  a  sleeping- 
car.  It  was  unfair  on  Wickenham's  part  not  to  have 
reminded  him  that  there  would  be  high  heels  to  en- 
tertain at  dinner.  And  who  was  the  fellow  in  the 
first  hansom  ?  I  le  had  long  hair  and  a  little  nose : 
was,  no  doubt,  a  wit.  Warre  was  in  that  gay  and 
adventurous  mood  which  the  skij^pers  of  old  must 
have  had  when,  the  sea  being  too  calm,  they  would 
whistle  for  the  wind.  Ilis  soul  had,  for  the  moment, 
become  a  mere  grin  :  he  was  an  incarnate  Titter. 
Lord   Wickenham's  residence  presented  an  unprc- 


2  6  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

tentious  exterior.  While  its  architecture  admitted  of 
a  portico  and  a  balcony,  the  one  was  so  small  that  it 
looked  like  the  entrance  to  a  bird-cage,  and  the  other 
was  too  narrow  to  stand  upon.  Although  Warre 
knew  the  house  as  well  as  his  own,  he  always  felt  a 
thrill  of  surprise  and  delight  when  the  squat  door 
was  opened  and  he  could  step  into  the  hall.  Here 
another  world  disclosed  itself — grand,  splendid,  and 
majestic,  created  when  life,  no  less  than  art,  was 
long,  and  crafts  had  not  rotted  into  trades.  Simon 
went  up  the  wide  marble  staircase,  the  walls  of 
which  were  hung  with  old  Flemish  tapestry  repre- 
senting the  Triumph  of  Love  over  Worldliness,  the 
Conflict  between  Youth  and  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins, 
and  similar  allegorical  subjects.  Having  crossed  an 
ante-chamber,  famous  for  its  miniatures,  and  the 
great  library,  he  found  his  host  in  a  small  room  fur- 
nished in  tulip-wood  and  rose-velvet,  and  which  was 
consecrated  to  Gainsborough's  painting  of  the  su- 
premely beautiful  "  Eliza,  Lady  Wickenham." 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


27 


CHAPTER    IV. 

IN    WHICH    WARRE  DISPLAYS   A   FORGOTTEN  TALENT. 

From  Dr.  Simon  Warre  to  the  Count  Vendra- 
mini. 

"My  Dear  Vendramini: — I  have  just  returned 
from  dining  with  Wickenham ;  dear  Wickenham ; 
incorruptible  Wickenham  of  the  square  jaw ;  six-foot 
three  in  his  stockings;  divine  lunatic ;  luminous  im- 
becile. What  man  in  Europe  can,  with  so  little  pre- 
meditation, utter  so  much  good  sense?  Have  you 
ever  met  him  ?  To-night  he  gave  a  dinner-party — 
the  Duchess  of  Wark,  Mrs.  Algernon  Dane,  the 
Maukin-Fawkeses,  Stanley  Breakspeare,  Lawrence 
Tarraway,  and  a  mysterious  Miss  Passer,  whom 
Emma  Wark  eyed  with  some  severity.  Miss  Passer 
was  tali,  with  superb  shoulders  and  a  swelling 
throat;  wearing  no  jewels  nor  meekest  ornament, 
she  had  the  sunny  air  of  those  primeval  simpletons 
who  were  naked  but  not  ashamed.  Her  radiant  eyes 
showed  the  delicious  void  aiirj  glorious  colour  of 
that  blue  sky   we  see  in  Italy;  the  caliu  of   Ilcavcn, 


28  THE    GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

without  its  unnatural  holiness,  dwelt  in  her  gaze. 
Brown  lashes,  long  and  lustrous,  shadowed  this 
splendour,  and  hair,  honestly  golden,  sparkling  with 
sincerity,  framed  a  face  of  such  inexcusable  loveli- 
ness that  to  behold  it  filled  one  with  a  suspicion  of 
the  Creator's  benevolence.  As  I  have  said,  Emma 
Wark,  most  romantic  of  discreet  matrons,  homeliest 
of  worldlings,  best  of  good  souls,  observed  Miss 
Passer  and  was  troubled.  VVickie,  her  friend,  Warre, 
her  cousin,  and  this  terribly  gifted  young  person. 
She  saw  it  all !  There  would  be  the  devil  to  pay.  I 
already  had  that  ecstatic  absence  of  mind  which 
is  the  earliest  symptom  of  a  mortal  enamoured. 
Wickie,  more  inscrutable  because  so  apparently 
transparent,  seemed  much  as  usual.  (In  any  case, 
Wickenham  in  love  is  only  Wickenham  over-sober ; 
the  sobriety  of  his  passions  must  puzzle  even  the 
Recording  Angel.     Are  they  passions  at  all?) 

"  Conversation  buzzed  with  drooping  wings  and 
feeble  drone  through  our  little  group,  so  lamentable 
is  the  effect  of  one  beautiful  stranger  among  devoted 
friends.  Miss  Passer  and  Mrs,  Maukin-Favvkes  dis- 
cussed in  dying  tones  the  huge  benefit  they  had  de- 
rived from  sea-air.  Stanley  Bi-eakspeare  and  Mrs. 
Algernon  Dane  could  not  decide  how  many  months 
had  elapsed  since  their  last  meeting :  each  felt  that 
it  did  not  matter  in  the  smallest  degree  one  way  or 
^he  other,  and  neither  took  the  trouble  to  look  con- 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  29 

cerned.  Maukin-Favvkes  confided  to  the  Duchess 
that  his  brute  of  a  doctor  had  forbidden  him  all  food 
except  charcoal  biscuits ;  he  no  longer  enjoyed  din- 
ing out ;  thought  seriously  of  going  to  Norway — to 
shoot  elk.  Or  was  he  thinking  of  some  other  beastly 
place  ?  His  memory — under  charcoal — had  suffered. 
If  he  wasn't  better  in  a  fortnight,  he  would  change 
his  medical  adviser.  Dundy  of  Brook  Street  gave 
everybody  dry  champagne  and  raw  eggs.  If  eggs 
did  not  suit  you,  you  could  use  your  own  judgment. 
But  then  one  does  not  pay  a  fellow  two  guineas  to 
be  told  to  use  your  own  judgment !  What  an  insult 
to  one's  intelligence  !  After  all,  there  was  something 
to  be  said  for  charcoal ;  the  best  science  nowadays 
was  always  opposed  to  common  sense.  '  I  have  a 
taste  for  science,'  he  added,  modestly.  Emma  Wark 
assumed  the  nice  consternation  which  all  well-bred 
persons  display  when  their  friends  own  to  any  talent. 
'Can  it  be  possible?'  she  looked  ;  '  do  I  hear  aright? 
Have  you  a  taste  for  science?  Who  would  have 
guessed  it? ' 

"The  progress  of  the  guests  to  the  dining-room 
was  the  quick  work  of  a  long  minute.  I  was  seated 
at  the  table  before  I  realised  that  Miss  Passer's  hand 
had,  for  a  second,  rested  butterfly-like  on  my  own, 
and  had,  as  delicately,  been  withdrawn.  Her  first 
act  was  a  careful  study  of  the  menu  ;  she  puckered 

her  divine   brows,   and,   at    intervals,  seemed   to  be 
3 


30  THE    GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

searching  her  memory  for  the  precise  flavour  of 
some  particular  dish.  Once  her  expression  said 
clearly,  '  Do  I  really  like  quails?  When  did  I  eat 
them  last,  and  where?'  She  made  no  attempt  at 
conversation  till  we  reached  the  fourth  course.  I 
thought  her  greediness  quite  charming :  it  was  so 
natural,  so  human,  so  unconscious,  yet  perfectly 
graceful.  She  eat  slowly,  lingering  over  each  mor- 
sel ;  there  was  no  hint  of  voracity  in  her  appetite.  It 
refreshed  a  student  of  Paralysis  to  see  such  health. 
I  did  my  utmost  to  amuse  this  exquisite  example  of  a 
sane  body,  female  of  sex,  angelic  in  appearance. 
Occasionally  she  smiled  at  my  wit,  showing  thereby 
a  sufficiently  good,  nay,  rather  an  amazing  intelli- 
gence !  Having  reached  roast  saddle  of  mutton,  she 
owned  to  a  tenderness  for  all  that  was  beautiful  in 
life.  She  had  a  pet  bird  who  was  ungrateful,  who 
had  once  bitten  her  finger — see,  the  scar! — but  she 
had  not  the  courage  to  scold  it,  to  even  show  anger. 
The  bird  was  so  pretty.  Extraordinary  sympathy 
in  tastes,  in  morals,  in  point  of  view  !  If  I,  too,  had 
owned  such  a  bird,  and  it  had  bitten  me  even  to  the 
heart,  I  would  have  forgiven  it  all,  and  died,  wor- 
shipping its  beauty.     "Was  that  weak? 

"'Manly,'  murmured  Miss  Passer;  'heroic!' 

"  '  Oh,  no,'  said  I,  '  not  heroic' 

'• '  /  think  so.'  Here  followed  a  discussion  on 
what  was,  properly  speaking,  heroism,  and  what,  a 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  3 1 

mere  matter  of  instinct.  It  was  a  man's  instinct  to 
adore  the  admirable — to  desire  it  eagerly — in  what- 
ever guise  it  might  appear.  She  supposed  this  was 
indeed  the  case,  and  sighed.  Melancholy  became 
her.  She  wore  it  with  celestial  resignation.  No 
peevishness  marred  the  serenity  of  that  May-morn- 
ing countenance.  How  young  she  was !  I  asked 
whether  this  was  her  first  season. 

"  She  replied  that  she  was  in  the  musical  profes- 
sion;  had  sung  several  times  in  public;  was  to  sing 
at  the  Rothschilds'  this  coming  week.  Mrs.  Dane 
had  been  extremely  kind  to  her,  and  had  given  her 
many  introductions.  Singing  was  hard  work,  but  a 
voice  was  her  only  gift. 

'"Sensible  woman,' said  I;  'you  have  no  desire 
to  adapt  souls  for  Paradise.  You  do  not  try  to  make 
virgins  out  of  mud  and  conquerors  out  of  sawdust.' 
(I  have  no  notion  what  this  means,  but  it  sounded 
rather  well  when  I  said  it.)  She  owned  that  she  was 
not  at  all  clever,  and  did  not  understand  social  ques- 
tions. She  only  wished  that  spotted  veils  would  go 
out  of  fashion.  They  hurt  her  eyes.  I  was  not  slow 
to  accept  this  invitation  to  look  into  them,  nor  did  I 
pretend  that  my  interest  was  purely  scientific;  in- 
deed, I  should  have  been  annoyed  if  she  had  thought 
so.  We  continued  our  fooling.  Mrs.  Maukin- 
Fawkes  to  the  left  and  LawrencS  Tarraway  to  the 
right  suffered  neglect,  and  by  no  means  in  the  Chris- 


32  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

tian  spirit.  Tliey  coughed  manners,  looked  morality, 
and  drummed  with  their  fingers  the  funeral  march 
of  my  future. 

"*  Simon  seems  very  happy,'  said  Emma  Wark  to 
VVickenham.  (He  repeated  the  conversation  to  me 
later.) 

"  '  And  why  not  ?  '  asked  Wickie. 

"  The  question  was  not  to  be  answered  at  random. 
*  If  it  were  suitable,'  she  observed,  after  an  unuttered 
but  violent  argument  conveyed  to  her  opponent  in  a 
series  of  smothered  sighs,  curls  of  the  nostril,  and 
swift,  needle-sharp  glances  in  the  direction  of  Miss 
Passer — '  If  it  were  suitable,'  she  repeated,  '  I  should 
be  the  first  to  rejoice.     But  it  looks  disastrous.' 

"  '  Why  ?  '  said  Wickenham. 

"  '  Busy  men  should  not  marry  pretty  wives,'  said 
Emma.     '  And  .  .  .  who  is  she  ?  ' 

"  '  A  friend  of  Mrs.  Dane's.' 

"  '  Are  they  related  to  each  other?  * 

"  '  I  believe  not.' 

"  '  I  hate  mysteries,'  said  the  lady,  tossing  her 
head. 

"  '  If  I  could  tell  you  anything  more  about  her  I 
would.     Aren't  you  my  conscience  ?  ' 

"  *  No,  or  you  would  show  more  discretion,'  was 
her  tart  reply. 

"  With  all  his  amiability,  Wickenham  is  not  a 
man  to  brook  the  dictation  of  any  Emma  Wark.    He 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


33 


is  master  of  his  own  dinner-table,  and  for  dinner-table 
read  opinions,  prejudices,  sentiments,  likes,  and  dis- 
likes. His  independence  of  mind  is  extraordinary ; 
his  indifference  to  criticism  shows  a  hardness  of 
heart,  a  spirit  of  flint,  not  to  be  so  much  as  named  in 
his  genial  presence.  It  is  not  cold  blood  which  flows 
in  his  veins,  but  iced  wine. 

"  '  My  house  is  not  a  marriage-market,'  he  said, 
with  a  dignity  peculiar  to  the  noble  family  of  Wick- 
enham.  '  I  do  not  invite  my  friends  to  smile  at  each 
other  here,  because  I  want  to  groan  at  their  wed- 
ding a  little  latter  ! ' 

"  Yet  Emma,  too,  has  spirit.  '  My  dear  Wick,' 
she  said  ;  '  the  genius  of  hospitality  consists  not  so 
much  in  making  people  meet,  but  in  helping  them  to 
part — on  good  terms.  Remember  that !  '  Wicken- 
ham  never  despises  a  good  idea — even  when  offered 
by  a  woman.  He  told  me  he  was  greatly  pleased 
with  that  remark,  and  made  a  note  of  it. 

"  After  the  ladies  had  left  the  table  discussion 
dropped  the  brisk  air  it  had  worn  under  their  balmy 
influence,  and  we  relapsed  into  silent  meditation,  lib- 
erally punctuated  by  full  stops.  Wickie  is  not  a 
great  talker,  and  is  not  the  prince  of  listeners:  he 
enjoys  nothing  so  much  as  a  long  pause.  For  this 
reason  geniuses  arc  always  ready  to  dine  with  him. 
They  can  leave  their  brilliancy  at  home,  and  bring 
their  wives.     At  most  houses  the  order  is  reversed. 


34  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

But  this  evening  I  was  the  nearest  thing  to  genius 
present. 

"  Harold  Maukin-Fawkes,  M.  P.,  is  a  man  of 
gloomy  disposition,  who,  nevertheless,  takes  it  as  a 
personal  affront  if  any  one  about  him  ventures  to  dis- 
play the  least  dulness.  His  melancholy  needs  gales 
of  laughter  to  keep  it  fresh,  otherwise  it  fades  into 
mere  jaundice.  Stanley  Breakspeare  is  a  gossip, 
but  he  has  an  irritating  habit  of  withholding  his 
scandalous  chronicle  until  every  other  man  at  the 
table  has  told  the  right  stories  about  the  wrong  peo- 
ple. Sir  Lawrence  Tarraway,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  born  a  really  charming  fellow,  but  he  was  once 
painted  by  Stanton  Marlow,  R.  A.,  as  '  Lucius  Cor- 
nelius Sulla,'  and  his  one  hope  now  is  to  be  mistaken 
for  that  immortal  canvas.  His  life  is  rounded  by  a 
gilt  frame  ;  humanity  does  not  touch  him.  Wicken- 
ham  lives  in  the  firm  conviction  that  the  picture  will 
one  day  be  destroyed  by  fire,  and  then  Tarraway  will 
be  himself  again. 

"  Maukin-Fawkes,  perhaps  because  he  was  the 
only  married  man  at  the  table,  was  the  first  to  refer 
to  Miss  Passer  as  a  devilish  pretty  woman,  and  to 
inquire  whether  she  was  an  heiress.  If  not,  why 
had  Sarah  Dane  taken  her  up  ? 

"  '  To  tell  the  truth,'  said  Wickenham, '  I  have  not 
given  the  matter  a  moment's  thought.  Mrs.  Dane 
asked  me  if  she  might  bring  her  here  to-night,  and  I 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


35 


said  I  should  be  delighted.  I  understand  she  has  a 
beautiful  voice.' 

"  '  Amateur,  I  suppose  ?  '  said  Maukin-Fawkes. 

'"No.  Mrs.  Dane  was  careful  to  say  that  she 
was  in  the  profession  ;  that  she  wished  to  earn  her 
own  living.     Plucky  ! ' 

"  Maukin-Fawkes  showed  the  horror  which  only 
a  gentleman  who  had  married  for  money  could  feel 
for  any  base  dependent  on  a  merely  natural  talent. 

"  '  Mrs.  Dane  told  me  all  about  her,'  said  Stanley 
Breakspeare,  in  a  thrilling  voice.  '  She  is  the  daugh- 
ter of  Sir  Hugh  Delaware.  But  he  is  in  the  Bank  of 
England,  and  is  as  poor  as  a  rat.  He  has  been 
obliged  to  drop  out  of  everything — even  his  club. 
Oddly  enough,  I  saw  the  old  cock  when  I  popped 
into  the  Securities  Office  the  other  day  about  some 
beastly  dividends.  I  opened  the  wrong  door,  and, 
instead  of  walking  into  the  Manager's  room,  I  found 
myself  amrmg  the  God-forgotten  clerks.  Ha!  ha! 
You  should  have  seen  me  bolt.  But  I  noticed  this 
old  fellow  at  once.  Ancient  style,  you  know.  Looks 
like  Sir  Robert  Peel,  and  the  Duke  of  Wellington, 
and  those  chaps — high  collar,  clean-shaven,  hnir 
sticking  out  above  his  ears.  "  Who's  that  swell  ?"  I 
asked  the  Manager.  "  He  would  make  his  fortune 
playing  carls  and  footmen  in  high  comedy."  "  Sir," 
said  he,  "  that  gentleman  is  Sir  Hugh  Delaware,  and 
one    of    our    most    conscientious    clerks."      "Good 


36  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

God  !  "  said  I.  "  Poor  devil !  "  I  never  heard  any- 
thing so  pathetic  in  my  life.  Take  my  oath  !  If  you 
could  have  seen  that  magnificent  old  aristocrat,  and 
heard  that  rotten  little  Cockney  Manager  calling  him 
a  conscientious  clerk,  as  though  he  had  some  idea  of 
giving  him  a  tip  at  Christmas!*  He  swallowed  some 
claret,  and  the  rim  of  the  wine-glass  made  a  sort  of 
a  ripple  on  the  humane  expression  which  the  recital 
of  this  anecdote  had  called  up  on  his  countenance. 
*  Lady  Delaware  was  a  Pavenham,'  he  added,  at 
length. 

"  Maukin-Fawkes,  who  was  now  breathing  more 
freely,  made  an  observation.  '  But  the  Pavenhams, 
too,  are  poor.' 

"  '  Poor !  I  should  think  so,'  said  Breakspeare. 
'  I  have  heard  that  they  have  got  even  a  skin  less 
than  most  people.' 

"  '  Why  is  the  girl  called  Passer  ? '  asked  Maukin- 
Fawkes. 

"  *  A  nom  de  guerre! 

"  *  I  wonder  whether  she  makes  much  money, 
singing.  She  dresses  well — far  better  than  my 
wife  ! ' 

"  Though  Wickenham  is  by  no  means  blind  to 
the  necessity  of  dowries,  he  abhors  any  open  dis- 
cussion of  a  woman's  fortune  :  it  seems  to  him  like 
hall-marking  the  stars :  his  chivalry  is  discreet,  but 
never  commercial.     He  has  a  deep  contempt  for  his 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  37 

cousin  Maukin-Fawkes,  who,  for  ten  thousand  a 
year,  married  a  few  pounds  of  chaste  bone  wrapped 
in  lean  flesh.  Good  Lord  !  While  man's  nature 
bears  the  taint  of  original  sin  it  is  impossible  to  love 
a  woman  so  innocent  of  witchery  as  poor  Ada  Mau- 
kin-Fawkes. And  marriage  without  some  sort  of 
sentiment  is,  say  what  you  will,  a  revolting  bargain. 
Wickie  and  I  have  never  faltered  in  our  agreement 
on  this  point. 

*'  It  is  significant  of  our  sympathy  that  at  the 
same  moment  and  in  obedience  to  the  same  impulse 
we  each  made  a  remark  which  at  once  diverted  curi- 
osity from  the  subject  of  Miss  Passer's  possible  in- 
come. Although  the  talk  fell  into  the  usual  tittle- 
tattle  about  absent  friends  and  acquaintances,  Miss 
Passer's  name  did  not  occur  asrain. 

"  In  the  next  room  things,  as  I  heard  from  Mrs. 
Maukin-Fawkes,  were  more  formal.  The  Duchess 
of  Wark  is  not  ill-natured,  but  she  has  three  unmar- 
ried sisters,  and  she  probably  could  not  see  why 
Sarah  Dane  (wiio  is,  after  all,  a  Carrigrohane,  and 
who  has  some  idea  of  noblesse  oblige')  she  could  not 
sec  why  Sarah  Dane  should  go  out  of  her  way  to  in- 
troduce a  fascinating,  God-knows-whom  into  their 
already  over-womaned  circle.  Did  it  not  smack  of 
treachery?  Her  Grace  has  her  own  method  of 
dealing  with  such  satin  foes.  She  turned  her  back 
on  Mrs.  Algernon  Dane,  and  asked  Miss  Passer  qucs- 


•if)  I  .'i  \  '.1 


38  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

tions  which,  had  that  young  creature  been  an  impos- 
tor, must  have  riddled  her  soul.  But  Miss  Passer, 
whose  Christian  name  was  Anne,  only  repeated  the 
same  simple  tale  she  had  confided  to  me  at  dinner. 
She  was  a  singer :  her  voice  was  soprano.  She  had 
no  intention  of  appearing  in  opera.  Her  people  ob- 
jected to  the  stage.  It  was  extremely  unlikely  that 
the  Duchess  should  have  met  either  her  father  or  her 
mother.  They  lived  in  great  retirement  in  a  tiny 
square  near  the  Uxbridge  Road.  Passer  was  her 
professional  name.  The  rest  was  mere  smiling :  she 
said  no  more.  Poor  Emma  began  to  feel  thoroughly 
ill  at  ease.  No  one  could  see  Miss  Anne  Passer  and 
not  suspect  that  she  was  unnecessarily  well  born : 
she  did  not  sit  in  that  select  circle  like  one  who  had 
rashly  strayed  into  the  wrong  Paradise.  If  the 
Duchess  could  only  have  caught  a  hint  of  Delaware 
or  Pavenham  she  w^ould  have  clasped  the  new-comer 
to  her  bosom — figuratively,  at  all  events.  For  she  is 
staunch  to  her  order  .  .  .  loyal  to  blood — whether 
its  earthl}'^  tabernacle  is  situated  near  the  Uxbridge 
Road  or  in  East  Hackney.  But  a  Passer,  suspi- 
ciously good-looking,  who  sang  for  her  supper  and 
perhaps  danced  for  her  lodging  !     Hence,  upstart ! 

"  When  we  joined  them,  Mrs.  Algernon  Dane  at 
once  wished  Wickenham  good-night,  explaining  that 
she  had  promised  to  take  Anne  to  Lady  Winde- 
grave's  party. 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  39 

"  '  I  am  going  to  sing  there,'  added  INIiss  Passer. 
The  little  speech  was  effective,  and  showed  that  she 
was  not  ashamed  of  her  calling.  After  she  had  gone, 
no  one  had  the  courage  to  refer  to  her  again. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  What  a  long  letter !  I  have 
not  been  so  communicative  since  I  wrote  descriptive 
articles  at  half-a-guinea  a  column.  Ah  !  those  were 
the  years  of  occasional  dinners  and  daily  eloquence. 
Now  my  dinners  are  daily  and  my  eloquence  only 
occasional.  Remember  me  to  AUcgra,  for  I  feel  sure 
that  she  has  already  forgotten  me.  Yours, 

"  S.  W." 

In  reading  over  this  frankly  artificial  burst  of 
confidence,  which  had  been  composed  rather  as  a 
relief  to  his  own  feelings  than  for  the  Count's  enter- 
tainment, Warre  had  sufficient  self-knowledge  to 
wonder  whether  he  would  have  addressed  it  to  Ven- 
dramini  if  there  had  not  been  an  Allegra  to  be  as- 
tonished at  its  contents.  He  hoped  she  would  see 
how  greatly  he  had  admired  the  charming  Anne 
Passer,  and  fell  asleep  thinking  of  a  little  girl,  aged 
seventeen,  in  Rome, 


40 


THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 


CHAPTER   V. 

AN   EXCURSION   INTO   THE   SORDID    AND   A   FLIGHT 
INTO   RHETORIC. 

Warre  awoke  the  next  day  with  a  firm  determi- 
nation to  coax  more  enjoyment  out  of  life,  and, 
while  he  dressed,  he  sang  with  some  gaiety : — 

"  Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 
Take  the  good  the  ggds  provide  thee." 

A  week  later  he  received  a  little  note,  bearing  the 
Delaware  crest,  and  signed  with  an  "  Anne  Passer," 
which  covered  half  the  page.     It  ran  thus  : — 

"  iS  SouTHwicK  Terrace,  Holland  Park. 

"Dear  Dr.  Warre:  As  you  expressed  so  great 
an  interest  in  modern  Italian  music,  it  might  amuse 
you  —  if  you  could  spare  the  time — to  call  on 
Wednesday  afternoon  about  five,  when  Signor  Cas- 
magni  is  coming  to  play  us  the  first  act  of  his  new 
opera.  The  Danes  have  promised  to  come  also. 
"  Yours  sincerely, 

"Anne  Passer." 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


41 


"  No  genius,  this,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  ac- 
cepted the  invitation  in  his  wittiest  manner. 

Some  time  had  passed  since  Warre  had  found  oc- 
casion to  drive  into  the  densely  populated  deserts  of 
Notting  Hill  and  the  Addison  Road.  In  gazing  at 
them  once  more,  he  had  the  sentiments  of  one  re- 
visiting a  land  of  former  exile :  no  released  captive 
could  have  felt  a  more  ardent  melancholy  at  the 
sight  of  his  prison-house  than  Simon  experienced  as 
he  drove  past  the  staring  villas,  hump-backed  man- 
sions, one-horned  crescents,  and  crooked  squares 
which  give  so  deformed  an  aspect  to  that  region 
which  lies  to  the  west  of  Hyde  Park.  He  remem- 
bered his  squalid  lodgings  in  Bloomsbury  with  loyal 
affection,  for  the  treasures  in  the  British  Museum 
give  dignity  to  the  meanest  room,  the  poorest  hab- 
itation within  its  shade.  There  the  atmosphere 
was  heroic,  scholarly,  artistic :  there,  a  man  could 
feel  himself  the  heir  of  all  the  ages  in  spite  of  an 
empty  stomach  and  a  pinched  heart.  Ah,  he  thought, 
poverty  never  kills  the  soul.  The  arch-destroyer  is 
dull  indolence,  which,  under  the  name  of  Christian 
contentment,  is  but  a  slatternly  acceptance  of  this 
world's  dust  and  ashes.  These  and  similar  reflec- 
tions went  through  the  young  doctor's  head  as  he 
a[)proached  South  wick  Terrace.  No.  18  was  a  cor- 
ner house,  the  front  windows  of  which  were  draped 
with    brown    damask    and    white    cotton    lace — the 


42  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

former  faded  by  the  sun,  and  the  latter  soiled  and 
limp.  Although  summer's  dust  and  winter's  fog  had 
formed  a  kind  of  moss  over  the  brick-work,  an  air  of 
disreputable  animation  distinguished  the  building 
from  the  forlorn  and,  to  all  outward  showing,  tenant- 
less  residences  which  made  up  the  rest  of  the  street. 
The  paint  on  the  door  had  worn  away  in  some 
places  and  been  scraped  away  in  others  by  impatient 
feet  and  errant  latch-keys  ;  the  bell  hung  wearily  by 
a  bent  wire  from  its  rusty  socket ;  the  steps  showed 
the  traces  of  many  and  strange  boots.  Warre's  sum- 
mons was  answered,  after  a  prolonged  discussion  in 
the  area  between  male  and  female  voices,  by  a  Swiss 
man-servant,  whose  stained  coat  and  insolent  stare 
confirmed  Simon's  suspicion  that  the  unfortunate 
Dela wares  were  boarding  with  the  cheerful  family  of 
some  bankrupt  speculator. 

When  he  reached  the  drawing-room,  a  cuckoo 
clock  struck  the  half-hour,  and  as  he  had  arrived 
rather  earlier  than  he  was  expected,  Anne  was  not 
there.  A  gentleman,  whom  he  at  once  knew  to  be 
Sir  Hugh  Delaware,  was  sitting  by  the  window  with 
a  little  box  of  old  feathers  and  odd  ribbons  by  his 
side,  making  artificial  flies.  The  Baronet  was  one  of 
those  men  of  gigantic  stature  and  strength  who  are 
so  fearful  of  exerting  their  superior  force  in  some 
unfair  or  tyrannous  way  that  they  do  not  use  it  at 
all,  and,  from  a  false  idea  of  generosity,  suffer  them- 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  43 

selves  to  be  ruled  by  beings  and  circumstances 
which  the  average  pygmy  would  feel  a  coward  in 
submitting  to.  His  fine,  serene  countenance  had  the 
smoothness  of  marble,  and  although  he  rarely  smiled 
so  vigorously  as  to  disturb  the  lines  of  his  mouth, 
there  was  an  amiable  tranquillity  in  his  expression 
which  presented  all  the  effect  of  a  perpetual  simper. 
Whatever  his  thoughts  may  have  been,  he  was  not 
troubled  by  ideas,  and  the  intelligence  he  displayed 
in  the  discharge  of  his  duties  at  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land was  that  of  a  learned  poodle,  who,  having  been 
taught  certain  tricks,  performs  them  he  knows  not 
why  nor  to  what  end.  In  the  early  part  of  his 
career  he  had  spent  his  small  fortune  in  riotous  ex- 
cess, driven  fast  horses,  and  been  driven  by  a  fast 
lady.  This  person,  whom  he  could  never  be  in- 
duced to  abuse,  was  known  as  his  "  Ruin  "  ;  and 
Lady  Delaware,  whom  he  had  never  been  heard  to 
praise,  was  called  his  "  Salvation." 

As  Warre  entered,  Sir  Hugh  raised  his  eyes,  and 
shewed  at  a  glance  that  he  guessed  who  the  visitor 
was.   He  rose,  introduced  himself,  and  sat  down  again. 

"  Pray  do  not  let  me  interrupt  your  work,"  said 
Warre. 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  an  excuse  to  rest,"  said  Dela- 
ware, with  a  languorous  air  of  fatigue.  "  I  have 
only  three  weeks'  leave  in  the  year,"  he  went  on, 
"and   I  spend   the  whole  time  angUng  at  Wenslcy. 


44  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

I  sold  the  place  long  ago  to  Ventry  Coxc,  but  he  is 
very  civil — very  civil,  indeed,  and  lets  me  fish  in  the 
lake.  We  take  lodgings  in  the  town  and  I  enjoy  the 
walk  to  the  Manor.     It  is  not  more  than  five  miles." 

In  making  this  unexpected  reference  to  the  sale 
of  his  family  estate,  which  had  occurred  some 
twenty  years  before  under  strangely  disastrous  con- 
ditions, Delaware  shewed  neither  regret  nor  senti- 
ment, but  had  even  something  of  the  pride  with 
which  a  veteran  refers  to  the  loss  of  a  limb  in  battle. 
Whatever  recollections  it  evoked,  he  fell  into  an  un- 
meditative  silence,  surveying  the  room  in  which  they 
sat  with  a  tolerance  verging  on  affection.  The  furni- 
ture was  dingy  and  uncomfortable,  consisting  mainly 
of  small  bamboo  tables  over-burdened  with  vulgar 
ornaments,  and  chintz-covered  chairs.  Vases  of  dis- 
coloured and  dyed  Pampas  grass,  a  gilt  clock,  and  a 
pair  of  lustres  adorned  the  mantel-piece  ;  a  few  faded 
photographs  of  gentlemen  in  officers'  uniform,  ladies 
in  dinner-dress,  and  babies  in  christening  robes  stood 
on  the  cottage  piano — a  dolorous  instrument  with 
walnut  legs  and  a  green  silk  back.  Two  china  lamps 
with  yellow  paper  shades,  resembling  the  tulle  petti- 
coats of  a  ballet-dancer,  were  placed  on  ebony  stands 
in  front  of  a  long  mirror  framed  in  gilt  carving  made 
to  represent  pine-apples,  fern-leaves,  and  birds  of 
paradise,  and  which  had  no  doubt  been  bought  for  a 
song,  inasmuch  as  the  glass  was  imperfect  and  re- 


i 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  45 

fleeted  all  things  not  only  hideously  distorted,  but 
through  a  mist. 

The  stillness  was  irresistible.  Simon  could  find 
nothing  to  say,  and  found  himself,  like  Sir  Hugh, 
staring  at  the  picture  of  pond-lilies,  storks,  and  blue 
clouds  which  was  painted  in  instalments  on  the  door 
panels. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Sir  Hugh,  at  last,  "  whether  the 
man  has  told  m}-  wife  that  you  are  here." 

At  that  moment  Lady  Delaware  came  into  the 
room.  After  Warre  had  been  introduced  she  showed 
her  teeth  in  a  perfectly  kind  manner,  and  explained 
that  her  daughter  had  been  detained  at  a  singing 
lesson  ;  she  would  be  with  them  in  a  few  moments. 
The  young  man  studied  Anne  Passer's  mother  with 
no  ordinary  interest.  She  looked  like  one  of  those 
trained  canaries  which  are  to  be  seen  at  country 
fairs,  and  which,  dressed  up  in  petticoats,  give  a 
pathetic  imitation  of  human  grace  and  dignity.  Her 
expression  was  pensive ;  her  figure,  elegantly  list- 
less ;  the  bonnet  she  wore  was  slightly  awry,  and 
her  lace  mantle  seemed  slipping  from  her  shoulders. 
When  she  used  her  small,  sad  eyes  of  tearful  tint  it 
was  only  to  fix  them  on  her  own  hands,  her  own 
shoes,  or  on  some  object  of  her  own  attire.  Warre 
felt  that  if — as  her  absent  air  implied — she  had  lost 
interest  in  the  world,  nnd  her  fellow-creatures,  it  was 
only  because  she  had  found  llic  needs  of  Lady  Dcla- 


46  THE  GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

ware  so  much  more  profitable  a  study.  She  had 
married  Sir  Hugh  because  he  was  handsome,  and 
because  she  would  have  died  of  jealousy  if  any  other 
woman  had  captured  him  ;  but,  with  the  morality 
peculiar  to  her  sex,  she  had  given  society  to  under- 
stand, and  never  allowed  him  to  forget,  that  in  be- 
coming his  wife  she  was  a  martyr,  and  that  in  grati- 
fying her  own  desires  she  had  accepted  a  heavenly 
mission.  For  twenty  sinners  who  can  bear  repent- 
ance, there  is  not  one  just  person  who  can  support 
the  knowledge  of  having  stirred  a  fellow-creature  to 
remorse.  Lady  Delaware  made  it  the  amusement  of 
her  life  to  lead  her  husband  out  of  temptation,  and 
deliver  him  from  evil,  and,  in  helping  the  penitent  to 
resist  his  tastes,  she  found  many  opportunities  for 
the  indulgence  of  her  own.  The  cares  of  housekeep- 
ing on  a  small  scale  had  proved  too  much  for  her 
temper.  All  the  Pavenhams  were  more  skilful  at 
eating  a  cheap  dinner  than  in  ordering  one.  She 
had  tried  lodgings ;  she  had  attempted  to  control  a 
furnished  flat ;  she  had  shared  a  villa  with  a  friend  ; 
and,  as  a  last  resort,  had  now  adopted  what  she  called 
the  Continental  plan  of  living  en  pension.  Sir  Hugh 
had  followed  her  progression  from  one  boarding- 
house  to  another,  at  first  with  reluctance,  and  at  last 
with  a  real  appetite  for  adventure.  The  constant 
change  of  scene  gave  a  variety  to  his  life  which  it 
would  otherwise  have  lacked,  and,  as  he  was  by  na- 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


47 


ture  philanthropic,  he  enjoyed  dining  at  a  long  table 
with  a  number  of  persons,  who,  if  they  were  not  his 
dependents,  looked  as  though  they  might  have  been. 
No.  1 8  South  wick  Terrace  was  not  more  barren 
of  luxury  than  most  establishments  of  its  class,  and 
was  considered  sufficiently  respectable  by  those 
whose  only  prejudices  were  directed  against  sinners 
who  lacked  discretion.  The  proprietress,  who  was 
an  army  surgeon's  widow,  called  it  a  private  hotel, 
and  dined  in  her  own  apartment,  usually  in  company 
with  military — and  other — cousins.  From  the  social 
point  of  view,  the  Delawares  w^ere  her  most  distin- 
guished patrons ;  the  rest  had  mysteriously  fine 
names  of  the  Greville-Stubbs  and  D'Eresby-Brown 
order,  or  professional  dignities  of  obscure  signifi- 
cance. The  women  minced  and  the  men  swaggered  ; 
a  false  decorum  and  a  falser  ease  made  the  moral  at- 
mosphere a  perpetual  hurricane  ;  jealousies,  bicker- 
ings, and  backbiting  were  like  a  plague  of  insects  in 
the  air.  The  life  of  the  house  would  have  been  con- 
temptible if,  in  regarding  it,  it  had  been  possible  to 
forget  that  each  creature  who  took  part  in  the  strug- 
gle had  an  immortal  soul.  Lady  Delaware  bore  her 
surroundings  with  an  indifference  which  lookers-on 
might  have  taken  for  arrogance,  good-nature,  or  stoic 
wisdom,  but  which  in  reality  arose  from  a  want  of 
understanding.  The  only  things  which  offended  her 
taste  at   Soutlnvick  Terrace  were  the  shabbinoss  of 


48  'l^HE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

the  furniture,  the  cotton  sheets,  the  Swiss  man-serv- 
ant, and  the  miserable  soups.  But  gossip  amused 
her ;  an  exhibition  of  the  pettiest  emotion  could  al- 
ways attract  her  curiosity,  and  so  long  as  that  enter- 
taining faculty  could  be  engrossed  her  patience 
never  wavered.  Hers  was  an  inquisitiveness,  too, 
which  was  as  far  removed  from  sympathy  as  old 
straw  is  from  new-mown  hay.  If  a  friend  broke  his 
leg  she  would  ask  in  Jiozu  many  places  and  whether  he 
groaned,  and  there  her  concern  would  end.  She  had 
heard  from  Anne  that  Dr.  Warre  was  considered  the 
coming  man  in  his  profession,  that  he  was  a  bachelor, 
that  she  had  met  him  at  Lord  VVickenham's.  Before 
coming  into  the  drawing-room  her  ladyship  had  ob- 
served his  brougham  and  its  fine  pair  of  roans  stand- 
ing at  the  front  door,  and  these  had  greatly  assisted 
her  belief  in  his  genius.  It  was  characteristic  of  the 
woman  that  it  did  not  enter  her  head  to  regard  him 
as  a  possible  son-in-law.  Her  one  and  only  thought 
was  a  sense  of  thanksgiving  to  Providence  that  she 
had  at  last  found  a  doctor  of  first-rate  ability  whom 
she  could  consult  with  regard  to  her  own  health  as 
often  as  necessary  and  without  paying  a  fee. 

The  conversation  of  Lady  Delaware  was  dry, 
formal,  and  a  little  condescending,  uttered,  too,  in 
nasal  tones  of  melancholy  cadence.  In  the  course 
of  ten  minutes  she  referred  to  three  Peers,  her  weak 
chest,  and  her  constant  attendance  at  eight  o'clock 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  49 

Celebration.  Simon  thought  her  dull  and  absurd, 
but  not  hypocritical.  She  was  too  indolent  to  as- 
sume a  virtue  or  affect  religious  airs  merely  to  im- 
press  other  people  ;  the  only  creature  she  lived  to 
please,  to  flatter,  and  to  satisfy,  was  herself ;  and  if 
she  had  once  felt  bored  by  a  Feast-day,  or  dismayed 
by  a  Fast,  she  would  have  found  chapter  and  verse 
for  proving  one  Romish,  and  the  other  unnecessary. 
She  had  the  same  mannerisms  in  the  solitude  of  her 
own  room  which  she  showed  in  company.  "  A  self- 
deceiver,"  thought  Warre,  who  began  to  get  impa- 
tient. 

At  last  Anne  made  her  appearance  in  all  the  pride 
of  a  fresh  and  carefully  studied  toilette.  Her  hair 
was  arranged  with  exquisite  care,  she  wore  a  dainty 
bonnet,  and  her  grey  gown  fell  in  the  softest  lines 
about  her  gracious  figure.  Her  shoes,  her  gloves, 
her  veil,  had  an  elegance,  a  correctness  which  de- 
lighted the  young  man,  who  was  himself  fastidious 
in  his  attire — even  dandified — and  at  an  age  when 
the  decrees  of  fashion  have  a  deeper  meaning  than 
the  Ten  Commandments.  Anne's  manner  with 
Warre  hovered  between  the  bewitching  shyness  of 
a  young  girl  wh(j  feels  herself  under  the  eyes  of  an 
admirer,  and  the  assurance  of  a  woman  of  the  world. 
Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  but  the  hand  she  gave  him 
was  firm  and  steady. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  were  able  to  come,"  she  said  ; 


50  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

and.  with  a  mvstcri(^us  glance  which  seemed  to  say 
that  it  the  occasion  for  more  intimate  speech  was  not 
theirs  at  that  moment,  it  might  haply  come  at  some 
future  time,  she  began  to  chatter  about  things  she 
had  only  read  of  and  people  she  had  never  met,  in 
that  sentimental,  over-earnest  manner  usual  in  young 
people  who  have  spent  their  time  in  castles  of  their 
own  buiklinsr.  Until  that  season  Anne  had  been 
rarely  in  society,  and  all  her  notions  of  life  were 
taken  from  the  stage.  Before  she  made  her  appear- 
ance as  a  singer  she  used  to  spend  her  few  spare 
shillings  on  theatre  tickets,  and,  from  the  upper  cir- 
cle, used  to  study  popular  actresses  in  their  various 
rdles  of  love-sick  Peeresses,  deserted  Queens,  and 
haughty  beauties.  Her  shallow  but  emotional  na- 
ture was  quick  to  accept  all  that  was  extravagant, 
forced,  and  unreal ;  and,  when  Mrs.  Dane  took  her 
out  into  the  world,  she  liked  to  think  herself  dis- 
illusioned because  at  the  few  dinner  parties  she  at- 
tended the  lords  did  not  hurl  epigrams  at  each  other 
across  the  table,  and  the  ladies  did  not  look  like  old 
pictures.  As  Warre  listened  to  her  artificial  prattle, 
he  thought  her  cold,  because  she  had  never  loved  ; 
cynical,  because  she  had  never  been  cherished  ;  and 
firm,  because  she  had  not  yet  discovered  her  own 
weakness.  His  judgment,  floating  on  the  waves  of 
her  hair,  lost  its  balance,  and  a  fatal  desire  entered 
into  his  mind  to  help  this  fair  soul  to  a  right  under- 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  5  I 

Standing  of  herself.  Simon's  imagination,  now  fired, 
was  not  exhausted  until  Anne  shone  out  in  all  the 
glamour,  the  romantic  fascination,  the  piteousness  of 
an  angelic  spirit  doomed  to  live  among  men  and  to 
be  tempted  by  the  powers  of  evil.  The  prudish  airs 
she  displayed  when  he  owned  to  an  admiration  for 
Swinburne  assisted  his  eager  faith  in  her  passionate 
purity.  Like  most  young  men  of  the  world,  he  had 
a  reverence  for  modest  women — more  particularl}'' 
when  they  happened  to  be  young  and  beautiful — 
which  was  not  without  a  tinge  of  false  sentiment. 
He  was  growing  bewildered  between  respect  for 
her  innocence  and  an  admiration  for  her  figure, 
when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Algernon  Dane  were  an- 
nounced. 

Mrs.  Dane  was  a  small,  once  pretty  woman,  with 
the  round,  infantile  features  and  soft  light  hair  which 
belong  to  those  joyous  creatures  who  are  destined 
to  a  life  of  serene  and  simple  happiness.  Yet,  in  con- 
tradiction to  these  auspicious  traits,  her  cheeks  were 
thin  and  her  body  wasted.  She  had  the  aspect  of  a 
sick  child,  only  the  look  of  long  endurance  in  her 
eyes  was  womanly.  She  wore  dismal  clothes,  and 
was  clearly  not  minded  to  display  her  husband's 
wealth  in  the  adornment  of  her  person.  For  this 
reason  Dane  rarely  cared  to  appear  in  public  with 
his  wife.  Everyone  could  not  know  that  she  was  a 
Carrigrohane,  and  if  one  did  not  possess  that  knowl- 


52 


THE   i.ODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 


edge,  it  was  quite  possible,  as  he  said,  to  mistake  her 
for  an  uiider-hoiisemaid  out  of  situation. 

Algernon  himself  was  short,  lean,  and  bald — an 
ugly  man  with  a  feverish  complexion,  and  a  leer 
which  was  only  one  degree  more  threatening  than 
his  snarl.  He  had  a  reputation  for  sarcastic  wit, 
and  walked  on  tiptoe,  as  though  its  spiritual  quality 
gave  him  an  airy  tread.  He  was  a  barrister  by  pro- 
fession, and  a  pawnbroker  by  instinct ;  but  as  his 
family  had  enjoyed  the  advantages  of  ill-gotten 
wealth  for  at  least  four  generations,  his  acquaint- 
ances were  agreed  that,  although  he  was  not,  he 
ought  to  have  been  a  gentleman.  His  manner  on 
entering  was  a  strange  mixture  of  the  important 
and  the  familiar ;  he  lounged  back  in  an  easy-chair, 
talked  in  a  loud  voice,  and  addressed  various  ques- 
tions to  Anne  without  putting' himself  to  the  trouble 
of  regarding  her.  Only  once  he  gave  her  a  swift 
and  searching  glance.  Warre  noticed  that  her  re- 
plies were  nervous  and  conciliatory.  She  showed 
an  anxiety  to  please — a  fear  of  offending  him.  The 
young  doctor  was  vexed,  but  did  not  marvel  that  the 
desire  for  laurels,  without  the  gifts  which  earn  them, 
had  burnt  away  the  wings  of  her  spirit. 

Suddenly  Sir  Hugh  expressed  surprise  that  Cas- 
magni  was  so  late. 

"He  will  never  come,"  said  Dane;  "it  is  much 
too   far.     He   is   not    like    Warre— he  hasn't  got  a 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  53 

brougham  !  By-the-bje,"  he  added,  staring  at  Si- 
mon's chin,  "  when  do  you  find  a  spare  minute  for 
your  patients  ?  You  are  ahva3's  going  to  parties 
and  dining  with  Duchesses  !  " 

Dane's  vulgarity  was  not  of  that  genial  kind 
which  only  wakes  at  the  sound  of  merriment,  nor 
did  it  ever  show  itself  in  a  common  or  expected 
way.  With  him  it  was  not  a  misfortune,  but  a  vice 
— a  vice  which  formed  the  very  spleen  of  his  ill- 
humour.  As  he  uttered  his  pleasantries,  the  servant 
entered  with  a  telegram. 

"  Casmagni  cannot  come,"  said  Anne,  as  she  read 
it.  Her  lips  quivered  ;  she  glanced  from  one  to  the 
other  with  a  grievous  smile,  and  then  fled  from  the 
room  in  tears.  Dane,  who  had  plucked  at  her  skirt 
as  she  passed  by  him,  tightened  his  mouth  over  an 
oath  which,  being  stemmed  in  its  natural  course, 
welled  up  in  his  eyes. 

"  She  has  been  over-working,"  he  said,  fiercely. 
"  She  is  not  fit  for  work.     She  is  ruining  her  looks !  " 

Sir  Hugh  shook  his  head,  and  observed  that 
Anne  could  never  bear  a  disappointment.  Mrs. 
Dane  offered  to  follow  the  unhappy  girl,  but  was 
restrained  by  Lady  Delaware,  who  explained  that 
sympathy  only  made  her  daughter  worse,  tliat  they 
never  noticed  her,  and,  sighing,  she  assailed  their 
patience  with  a  long  account  of  her  own  miseries. 
"  But  I  have  learnt  to  suffer  in  silence,"  she  said,  at 


54  THE  GODS,  SOME  MORTALS, 

last,  "  and  although  the  mother's  heart  in  me  longs 
to  offer  consolation  to  dear  Anne,  I  have  to  think  of 
the  hour  when  she  must  bear  her  troubles  alone.  I 
cannot  be  with  her  always,  and  when  I  am  called 
away,  1  would  not  have  her  find  my  loss  too  great 
an  affliction.  Many  of  us  forget  that  when,  from  a 
purely  selfish  desire  to  make  ourselves  indispensable 
to  others,  we  teach  them  to  rest  on  our  poor  shifting 
aid  in  preference  to  that  ever-present  Comforter — 
their  own  conscience.  I  feel  these  things  deeply  !  " 
How  plausible  she  was  ! 

Sarah  Dane  was  too  simple  not  to  be  impressed 
by  these  elevated  sentiments,  and  too  warm-hearted 
to  accept  them.  While  she  was  searching  through 
her  little  stock  of  polite  phrases  for  some  coldly- 
sweet  reply,  Warre  took  his  leave.  He  had  de- 
scended the  stairs  and  reached  the  dim,  close  hall 
when  he  heard  his  own  name  spoken  between  a  sob 
and  a  whisper.  Looking  up,  he  saw  Anne.  She 
beckoned,  and  he  reascended  the  staircase.  Without 
speaking,  she  opened  a  door  which  he  had  not  ob- 
served, and  he  followed  her  into  a  conservatory 
filled  with  Japanese  lamps  and  dead  plants. 

"  What  must  you  think  of  me  ?  "  she  said,  and 
began  to  weep  bitterly.  "  But  you  do  not  know 
how  hard  it  is  to  be  a  poor  woman  with  rich  friends 
— with  rich,  ugly,  vulgar  friends.  They  can  afford 
to  pay  for  happiness  ;  they  can  buy  it." 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  55 

"  You  ought  to  have  everything,"  said  VVarre, 
"  everything." 

She  pretended  not  to  hear.  "And  it  is  all  so 
lonely,"  she  went  on.  "  Men  do  not  know  what  lone- 
liness means — to  go  up  and  down  the  dark  stairs — 
meeting  no  one,  to  open  each  door  and  find  a  room 
full  of  people  who  do  not  want  you — whom  you  do 
not  want,  to  return  to  your  own  room  and  find  it 
emptiest  of  all.  O,  my  God  !  how  wretched  I  am ! 
What  have  I  not  done  for  companionship  ?  For 
companionship  even  for  half-an-hour,  with  long,  deso- 
late days  before  and  afterwards  ! "  Warre  did  not 
pay  much  heed  to  these  words  at  the  time,  but  later 
in  his  life  they  shone  out  in  his  memory  in  letters  of 
lead. 

"  I  am  in  great  trouble.  I  am  in  great  doubt 
about  something,"  she  said.  "  If  I  should  ask  you  if 
I  might  come  and  see  you  soon — perhaps,  this  even- 
ing— would  you  be  angry  ?  would  you  think  it  very 
strange  ?  It  is  impossible  to  talk  here.  I  could  be 
at  your  house  about  nine.  I  must  ask  your  advice  ; 
there  is  no  one  else.  Women  advise  each  other  so 
badly." 

"  To-night  at  nine  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  Would  not 
to-morrow  morning  be  better?" 

"  That  may  be  too  late,"  she  said,  mysteriously. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  Anne  was  not  the  first  to 
glance  away.      "  You  are  not  like  other  men,"  she 


56  THE    GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

added;  "other  men  would  misunderstand!"  And 
then  he  hated  himself.  Why  did  women  always 
make  one  feel  a  hypocrite  ? 

"  Then  let  it  be  to-night,"  he  said,  briefly,  and  en- 
deavoured to  look  as  though  he  saw  nothing  unusual 
in  her  suggestion.  She  pressed  his  hand,  he  left  her, 
and  in  leaving  was  annoyed  to  the  point  of  extreme 
pleasure  at  the  thought  that  they  would  meet  again 
in  a  few  hours.  She  was  so  pretty,  so  miserable,  so 
foolish,  and — perhaps — so  innocent.  He  knew  that 
she  was  not  a  woman  for  whom  he  could  feel  any 
intense  afTection,  yet  he  found  it  a  soothing  specula- 
tion to  wonder  whether  she  could  ever  grow  to  care 
for  him.  O  Allegra  !  Allcgra  !  Allcgra  !  Yoii  were 
made  for  love  and  to  be  loved,  and  yet  you  wotdd  have 
neither  !  His  aching  pride  took  balm  from  the  hope 
that  Anne  might  be  more  kind.  Several  women  had 
pretended  tenderness,  had  written  him  passionate 
vows,  and  protested  infinite  devotion;  but  his  pro- 
foundly sentimental  nature  had  been  distracted  in 
each  case  by  some  false  note  in  a  phrase,  by  some 
awkward  pose,  by  a  flaw  in  the  complexion.  He 
had  liked  those  best  whom  he  had  seen  but  seldom, 
and  the  faces  he  remembered  with  most  pleasure 
were  those  he  had  studied  by  moonlight.  But  Alle- 
gra said  and  did  all  things,  so  it  seemed  to  him,  in 
harmony  ;  there  was  a  divine  neatness  in  every  ges- 
ture she    used,    every    word    she   uttered;    she    had 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


57 


beauty,  distinction,  and  all  the  fascination  of  her 
Italian  birth.  Above  all,  he  was  in  love  with  her, 
and  if  for  no  other  reason  than  that — if  she  had  been 
plain  to  others,  dull  to  others,  chilling  to  others — she 
was  the  summer  in  his  nature,  the  divinity  in  his  life. 
Yet  he  did  not  know  this — he  only  knew  that  Anne's 
advances  made  him  remember  Allegra's  coldness 
with  the  more  passionate  regret. 

He  did  not  return  home  immediately,  but  dis- 
missed his  carriage  and  walked  to  Lord  Wickcn- 
ham's.  His  lordship  was  dressing  for  dinner,  and 
Warre  went  up  to  his  room — a  large,  imposing  apart- 
ment, remarkable  for  its  bare  simplicity  and  a  four- 
posted  bed,  once  pressed  by  the  royal  limbs  of  Queen 
Elizabeth.  The  furniture  was  mahogany,  and  the 
prevailing  tint  of  things  maroon. 

"  Well,"  said  Wickenham,  who  was  attacking 
his  close-cropped  hair  with  two  large  brushes  as 
Simon   entered — "  well,    what    have    you    been   do- 


ing? 


Simon  described  his  visit  to  the  Delawares — omit- 
ting, however,  his  last  interview  with  Anne — and 
ended  with  the  observation:  "I  am  sorry  for  that 
girl. 

"  Then  don't  intcrru[)t  l)cr  life,"  said  Wickenham, 
shortly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Wickenham    drew    himself   up   and    nssumrd    the 


58  THE    GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

manner  which,  in  after  days,  created  so  great  an  im- 
pression when  he  addressed  the  House  of  Lords. 

•'  1  have  always  held,"  said  he,  "  that  friendship 
means  the  bearing-  of  confidence  and  not  the  disload- 
ing  of  advice.  But  to-day  you  have  spoken  plainly 
to  me  of  a  matter  which  to  yourself  is,  I  believe,  only 
the  vague  interest  of  a  passing  hour — an  emotion 
which  will  die  in  the  utterance.  I  think,  therefore, 
that  I  may  reply  as  I  would  if  we  were  discussing 
any  question  which  touched  neither  of  us  so  deeply 
that  each  w^ould  feel  it  might  be  more  conveniently 
arofued  in  the  other's  absence.  The  situation  is  this : 
you  have  met  a  woman  who  is  young  and  pretty — 
even  unusually  pretty — who  you  have  every  rea- 
son to  suppose  is  in  circumstances  of  rather  com- 
mon unhappiness.  She  would  be  rich,  but  she  is 
poor;  she  would  be  distinguished,  but  she  is  not  a 
genius ;  she  would  be  a  leader  of  fashion,  but  she  is 
not  in  the  great  world.  As  a  man  of  experience,  you 
observe  that  she  is  hysterical,  vain,  light-minded, 
but  as  a  son  of  Adam  you  concede  that  her  natural 
charms  atone  in  a  considerable  degree  for  these  in- 
tellectual  defects.  You  feel  a  grinning  compassion 
for  her  little  woes,  and  a  wish  to  amuse  yourself  by 
making  her  happy.  And  how  is  this  to  be  done? 
By  writing  her  empty  notes  for  the  sake  of  hint- 
ing  at  a  tenderness — which  you  do  not  feel — over 
the  signature?     By  paying  her  occasional  visits,  fol- 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


59 


lowing  her  with  your  eyes  when  )^ou  meet,  sighing 
when  you  part,  and  forgetting  her  entirely  when  she 
is  not  in  sight.  By  disturbing  her  daily  occupation 
with  dinners,  excursions  up  the  river,  suppers  here, 
and  opera-boxes  there,  by  exposing  her  to  the  re- 
marks of  the  too  numerous  who  live  by  devouring 
reputations,  and  to  the  attentions  of  men  who  see  no 
reason  why  others  should  fail  where,  as  they  will 
suppose,  you  have  succeeded — to  men  who  are  either 
too  wise  to  love  her,  or  too  mean  to  marry  poverty. 
Women  must  either  be  loved  or  left.  Leave  her 
alone  !  You  cannot  be  merely  kind  to  her ;  she  may 
grow  to  care  for  you,  and,  in  your  attempt  to  make 
her  happier,  you  will  give  her  pain,  humiliation, 
misery. 

"  And   if   she   did   grow    to    care   for   me,"   said 

Warre,  "  do   you   think    I    should    be    such "  he 

stopped  short  and  flushed — less  at  the  thought  that 
his  friend  could  suspect  his  intentions,  than  at  the 
knowledge  that  his  own  imagination — if  not  his  will 
— had  brooded  over  unutterable  possibilities. 

"  She  attracts  you,  but  you  do  not  love  her,"  said 
Wickenham,  stubbornly,  "  and,  if  she  loved  you,  it 
would  make  you  wretched.  You  want  a  bourgeois 
devotion  expressed  in  the  s[)irit  of  Dante.  For 
God's  sake,  leave  her  alone  !  " 

"  How  do  you  know,"  said  Warre,  "  that  1  liavc 
not  some  thought  of  asking  her  to   marry  me  ?     A 


f^  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

man  must  settle,  and  so  long  as  a  woman  is  pretty, 
good-humoured,  and  refined,  what  more  should  he 
want?  There  is  nothing  more,"  he  added,  in  a  tone 
of  defiance.  "  Say  what  you  will,  there  is  nothing 
more.  The  rest  that  one  hears  is  the  stuff  that 
dreams  are  made  of — the  language  of  ungratified  de- 
sire. Men  and  women  who  lead  natural  lives  have 
very  little  to  offer  about  ideals  of  love.  When  I  was 
very  young  I  read  the  poets,  and  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
never  weed  their  damnable  poetry  out  of  my  mind. 
But  it  is  all  wrong,  all  a  mistake — profoundly  un- 
healthy. It  makes  one  a  weak  fool — maudlin — a 
seeker  after  strange  stars  and  new  moons.  I  have 
imagined  heroic  passions  which  you  and  I  would 
laugh  at  in  a  sick  girl.  Yet  I  know  that  these  or- 
dinary love  affairs  fill  one  with  self-contempt — they 
are  a  weakness,  a  degradation  of  the  spirit.  I  am 
wretched,  however,  if  there  is  not  a  woman  in 
sight.  I  always  hope  that  she  may  be  the  creature 
I  can  worship.  I  have  even  seen  one  or  two  I  could 
have  loved  for  ever  if  they  had  only  held  their 
tongues.  But  there  is  always  so  much  treachery — 
so  much  artifice,  so  much  selfishness — there  are 
always  such  little  meannesses,  so  many  lies.  Wh}'  is 
it,  I  wonder,  that  there  is  no  abiding  pleasure  to  be 
found  merely  in  the  senses?  Why  do  perishable 
creatures,  like  men  and  women,  have  such  a  long- 
ing for  something  eternal — something  in  which  the 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  6l 

senses  have  no  share  ?  Passion  is  so  rich  in  protes- 
tations and  so  frail  a  bond." 

"  I  don't  think  that  many  of  us  are  troubled  by 
fancies  of  this  kind,"  replied  Wickenham.  "  The 
great  thing-  in  life  is  to  be  in  earnest — say  what  you 
mean,  not  what  you  think  you  ought  to  say,  and 
strive  for  the  thing  you  want — not  for  the  thing 
which  the  philosophy  of  the  moment  has  made  fash- 
ionable, or  the  emotion  of  a  day  has  made  a  little 
tempting.  There  is  very  little  poetry  in  me,  but  if  I 
had  an  ideal  like  yours  I  should  either  stick  to  it  or 
drop  it  altogether.  If  you  consider  it  impossible 
you  are  a  fool  to  give  it  a  second  thought,  and  if  it 
is  possible  you  are  a  coward  if  you  accept  anything 
less." 

"  Miss  Delaware  is  a  woman  whom  any  man 
would  admire,"  said  Warre.  "  She — she  is  most  at- 
tractive." 

"  I  admire  her  extrcjnely,"  said  Wickenham,  "  but 
then  1  am  a  Pagan  ;  my  goddesses  are  always  very 
human.  I  offer  them  sympathy  rather  than  re- 
spect !  " 


52  THE   GODS,   SOME    MORTALS, 


CHAPTER   VI. 

A   LITTLE   LOVE;    A   LITTLE   SCIENCE. 

When  Anne  entered  Warre's  study  that  evening, 
she  found  him  standing  directly  under  the  light,  read- 
ing— or  pretending  to  read — a  book.  She  noticed  that 
he  was  unusually  pale — that  he  looked  very  grave. 
After  the  man-servant  had  closed  the  door  and  left 
them  alone,  she  hung  her  head  like  a  guilty  child  and 
said  very  humbly :  "  It  is  so  good  of  you  to  see 
me  !  "  Warre  had  resolved  to  capture,  in  the  coming 
interview,  every  impulse  and  every  thought  which 
strayed  from  the  domain  of  pure  and  dispassionate 
friendship.  Yet  even  as  he  heard  the  rustle  of  her 
silk  skirts  and  the  light  fall  of  her  feet,  his  heart 
began  to  beat  with  a  force  too  strong  for  his  will — 
with  an  agitation  beyond  the  control  of  philosophy. 
Why  should  there  always  be  this  humiliating  struggle 
between  the  flesh  and  the  spirit?  Why  should  he 
be  attracted  against  his  wish  by  a  woman  whom 
he  did  not  love?  when  his  whole  mind  was  fixed  on 
another?     He  looked  at  Anne  and  almost  hated  her 


AND   LORD   WICKEXHAM.  63 

extravagant  prettiness,  her  ostentatious  femininity. 
His  conversation  with  Wickenham  had  roused  a 
passion  of  remembrance — the  remembrance  of  sweet, 
unearthly  moments  passed  with  AUegra — of  all  the 
romantic  and  chivalrous  ideals  he  had  formed  of  a 
wife — the  dearest,  truest,  purest  man  ever  wor- 
shipped— of  a  love  fresh  as  the  blue  fields  of  heaven, 
and  rich  with  the  fairest  blessings  of  life.  What  was 
Anne  to  him  ?  Nothing.  Had  she  been  an  angel 
from  Paradise  he  did  not  want  her.  He  pitied  her, 
had  a  certain  affection  for  her,  but  his  mood  of  some 
hours  before  had  passed  away,  even  as  Wickenham 
had  warned  him.  All  that  remained  was  a  tumult  of 
sensation,  unspeakable,  disquieting ;  nature  is  not  so 
easy  a  companion  as  false  sentiment. 

Anne  seated  herself  by  the  table,  and,  placing  her 
elbows  there,  rested  her  chin  between  her  hands. 
The  tears  which  she  had  shed  that  afternoon  had 
only  given  her  countenance  the  brilliant  mistiness  of 
an  April  shower,  and  her  bright  eyes  shone  through 
it  like  two  suns.  Behind  her  and  on  each  side  rose 
the  long  lines  of  book-shelves  filled  with  ponderous 
and  sombre  volumes,  whose  gilt  lettering,  sometimes 
caught  by  the  light  from  the  pendant  lamp,  glittered 
with  wise  names.  The  velvet  curtains  were  drawn 
across  the  window,  a  screen  of  Japanese  embroidery 
concealed  the  door,  the  room  seemed  to  hang  some- 
where out  of  the  universe;    not  a  sound   from   llic 


64  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

outer  Street  reached   either  of  its  two  inmates  ;   all 
was  still. 

*'  I  am  not  going  to  cry,"  said  Anne.  "  I  will  be 
very  quiet  and  will  not  waste  too  much  of  your  time. 
This  afternoon  I  was  distressed  and  over-tired,  and 
was  not  myself.  People  always  say  that  they  were 
not  themselves  when  they  have  done  anything  par- 
ticularly foolish  !  You  told  me  that  the  first  time  I 
met  you — when  we  were  talking  at  dinner.  I  cannot 
think  what  makes  you  so  kind  to  me.  No  one  has 
ever  been  so  kind  before.  I  have  no  friends.  I  am 
only  a  woman  who  sings  to  the  mob." 

He  was  touched.  He  had  seen  enough  of  her 
home  life  to  feel  that  there  might  be  some  truth  in 
her  words.  Her  character,  he  thought,  was  like  an 
artificial  arrangement  of  natural  flowers — the  roses 
wired,  the  stems  composed  of  sticks,  the  whole  tied 
up  with  ribbon.  The  emotions  she  displayed  and 
the  stories  she  told  were  genuine  in  part,  but  ribbon, 
stick,  and  wire  were  the  ruling  elements. 

"  And  3' et,"  she  continued,  in  a  low  voice,  "  and 
yet  there  is  someone  who  wishes  to — to  help  me — 
if  I  could  only  make  up  my  mind  that  it  would  not 
be  dishonourable  to  accept  his  kindness." 

"  Dishonourable  ? "  asked  Warre,  lifting  his  eye- 
brows. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  artlessly,  "you  see,  I  do  not 
care  for  him."     She  looked  at  Simon  as  she  spoke 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM. 


65 


and  a  wave  of  colour  swept  over  her  cheeks.  "  It 
would  be  terrible,"  she  added  ;  "  yet  this  life  kills 
me.  I  cannot  sing  always,  and  I  can  only  be  young 
a  little  while  longer.  It  is  a  choice  between 
unhappiness  in  comfort  and  unhappiness  in  pov- 
erty." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean,"  said  Warre,  slowly,  "  that 
you  have  had  an  offer  of  marriage  from  a  man  you 
do  not  love." 

Anne  dropped  her  eyes  in  acquiescence. 

"  Would  it  be  impossible  for  you  to  care  for 
him?" 

The  girl  smiled  bitterly,  and  made  two  attempts 
to  speak  before  she  answered.  Shame  and  despair 
cast  their  shadows  on  her  face ;  she  held  out  her 
two  hands  with  an  appealing  gesture,  as  though  she 
were  endeavouring  to  repulse  a  force  beyond  her 
strength. 

"  He  is  a  man  like  Algernon  Dane  !  "  she  said  at 
last. 

"  Good  God  I  "  exclaimed  Warre. 

"  How  dare  you  look  at  me  like  that?"  she  cried, 
passionately.  **  You  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be 
poor." 

"  Would  you  sell  yourself?" 

The  question  was  brutal,  and  her  gentle,  sorrow- 
ful reply  filled  him  witii  remorse.  "  I  tliii)k  ho  h^vcs 
me,"  she  murmured;    "and   where   there   is   love  it 


(36  THE   CODS,  SOME    MORTALS. 

seems  to  be  a  woman's  part  to  yield,  sooner  or  later, 
and  to  regret." 

**  To  regret  ? " 

"Some  of  us  are  so  weak,"  she  explained,  hur- 
riedly, "  and  we  cannot  afford  to  despise  affection. 
Men  always  say,  '  1  love  you — give  me  your  world.' 
And  then  the  woman  gives  her  world — and  then — 
he  puts  it  out  of  her  reach  for  ever.  Cannot  you 
imagine  a  girl  who  has  never  cared  for  anyone  be- 
ing touched  at  last  by  devotion,  and  thinking  that 
if  love  is  on  one  side,  at  least  it  is  enough  for  happi- 
ness?    And  then — to  meet  someone  else  who  seems 

so  different  from  all  the  others I  forget  what 

I  was  going  to  say.     But  if  you  tell  me  to  break  off 
— with  this  other — friend — I  will  do  so." 

"  You  are  very  inexperienced,"  said  Warre — 
"too  inexperienced  to  marryi  You  must  wait  a 
little." 

"  But  men  are  so  impatient." 

Something  in  her  tone — in  the  expression  which 
flitted  over  her  countenance  as  she  spoke — produced 
an  effect  in  his  mind  which  was  not  altogether  curi- 
osity, not  altogether  suspicion,  yet  a  sentiment  curi- 
ously akin  to  both. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  If  a  man  wants  to  marry  a  girl  like  me — poor, 
like  me,  and,  like  me,  a  professional  singer — he  is  so 
exceptional  that  he  ought  not  to  be  kept  waiting  for 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  ^-j 

an  answer."  Anne  had  changed  her  position,  and 
now  sat  with  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  her  head 
thrown  back  with  an  air  of  defiance,  of  contempt. 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  again. 

"  I  never  expected  any  man  to  ask  me  to  marry 
him,"  she  replied,  turning  pale  ;  "  only  rich  girls  are 
loved.  Love  is  too  dear  for  me.  That  is  why  I  am 
so  grateful — oh,  so  grateful — for  your  kindness." 
Her  voice  trembled,  and  as  she  looked  at  Warre  he 
saw  the  unmistakable  light  of  true  affection  shine 
through  her  tears.  She  cared  for  him ;  it  was  a 
woman's  way — sweet,  absurd,  unsought,  unreason- 
able. He  did  not  deserve  it.  Should  he  accept  the 
gift,  or,  since  he  had  so  little  to  offer  in  return, 
would  it  not  be  more  honest  to  seem  harsh,  un- 
knowing, and  unkind  ?  Had  she  ever  looked  so 
pretty  ?  It  should  not  be  a  hard  task  to  like — even 
considerably — so  bewitching  a  woman.  She  did  not 
ask  the  intense  love  he  bore  for  Allegra,  and  which 
Allegra  valued  so  lightly.  And  a  man  needed  more 
in  his  life  than  a  possession  which  he  could  never 
call  his  own — a  passion  which  could  only  spend 
itself  in  sighing.  Yet  as  he  remembered  Allegra, 
in  order  to  decide  how  best  and  most  wisely  he 
could  forget  her,  a  vision  of  her  face  came  before 
him,  and,  heart-sick,  he  looked  away  from  the 
woman  at  his  side. 

"I   have  not  been   kind,"  he  said,  hunicdly;  "1 


68  TIIK   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

have  not  done  anything  to  deserve  your  gratitude, 
and  I  am  not  sure  that  I  can  even  give  you  advice 
worth  following,  or  advice,  at  any  rate,  which  any 
other  man  could  not  give  equally  well,  and  would 
not  give  quite  as  willingly.  You  make  me  feel 
wretched  when  you  thank  me  for  a  service  which 
costs  me  nothing — which  is,  in  fact,  no  service  at  all, 
but  a  mere  formal  politeness." 

At  that  moment  his  servant  entered  with  the  let- 
ters which  had  arrived  by  the  last  post,  and  Warre 
was  thankful  for  the  interruption.  While  the  man 
was  present  he  glanced  at  Anne  more  easily,  and 
smiled  at  her  with  frank  friendship ;  but  no  sooner 
had  he  left  them  than  the  old  embarrassment  re- 
turned, a  stifling  oppression  was  in  the  atmosphere. 
Anne  said  nothing ;  he  could  only  hear  her  delicate, 
quick  breathing,  which  reminded  him  of  a  child 
asleep.  The  air  seemed  to  have  caught  the  vibra- 
tion of  her  heart. 

He  turned  over  the  letters ;  one  bore  the  Roman 
postmark  and  AUegra's  prim  little  handwriting. 

"Will  you  excuse  me?"  he  said,  unsteadily. 
"  This  is  the  only  one  which  is  important.  I  can 
look  at  the  others  later,"  and  walked  away.  Anne 
could  not  see  him  ;  he  pressed  the  envelope  to  his 
lips,  covered  it  with  kisses,  broke  the  seal.  And  it 
contained  six  lines  of  formal  thanks  for  a  rosary  of 
pearls  he  had  sent  her  for  a  birthday  gift.     He  was 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  6q 

most  kind.  She  remained  sincerel}-  his,  Allegra  Ven- 
dramini. 

He  burst  out  laughing,  crumpled  the  letter  in  his 
hand,  and  flung  it  into  the  grate.  "  Dear  little  girl," 
he  said  to  Anne,  "  who  would  not  be  kind  to  you  ? 
You  have  a  heart."  He  stooped,  kissed  her  once, 
kissed  her  again,  saying  to  himself,  "  I  do  not  love 
you  in  the  least,"  but  owning  that  her  cheeks  were 
pleasant. 

"  Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee  !  " 

Hateful  couplet !  Sound  philosophy  !  "  Anne,  do 
you  like  me  a  little  ? "  he  cried.  "  I  believe  you  do. 
How  sweet  you  are  !  Give  up  that  other  brute  and 
marry  me.  I  can  give  you  everything !  I  will  take 
care  of  you  !  You  shall  never  again  have  a  wish,  a 
whim,  one  delightful,  foolish,  womanly  desire  un- 
gratified.  Isn't  life  splendid?  Isn't  it  a  gift?  Isn't 
it  glorious?     O,  tell  me  again  you  care  for  me  !  " 

She  seized  his  hand  and  kissed  it  passionately. 
"  I  love  you  !  Oh  !  I  love  you  !  "  she  repeated.  "  I 
cannot  tell  you  why,  but  I  do."  All  her  nature  was 
in  the  cry.  The  love  she  felt  was  not  that  of  a 
woman  who  had  thought  much,  who  cither  be- 
stowed, or  demanded,  or  understood  a  great  passion, 
but  it  was  graceful,  winning,  and  full  of  that  caress- 
ing, rather  animal,  tenderness  which,  until  it  i)alls, 
is  so  seductive.     The  truth  is  always  sobering,  and 


-Q  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

the  honesty  of  Anne's  commonplace  affection  made 
War  re  ashamed. 

*'  I  will  write  to  you  to-morrow,"  he  said  ;  "  you 
shall  never  regret  having  cared  for  me.  Dear  little 
lady,  ffood-nijrht ! "  He  fastened  her  mantle  at  the 
throat,  and  with  his  arm  round  her  waist  led  her  to 
the  door. 

"  Good-night !  good-night !  Are  you  happy,  dar- 
ling,  are  you  happy  ?  We  must  be  married  soon. 
Will  you  be  happy  with  me?" 

"  So  happy,"  said  Anne. 

"And  you  like  me  ...  a  little  ?  " 

She  leaned  her  head  against  his  breast  and  wept ; 
clung  to  him,  kissed  him  timidly.  Who  would  not 
be  kind  to  her  ?     She  had  a  heart  .  .  . 

He  put  her  into  a  cab,  and  watched  it  roll  away 
into  the  night.  She  was  going  to  Mrs.  Dane's. 
When  he  returned  to  the  study  his  eyes  fell  on 
AUegra's  letter,  which  lay  where  he  had  tossed  it,  in 
the  grate.  And  he  picked  it  up  that  he  might  have 
the  misery  of  hurling  it  from  him  once  more.  "  That 
is  ended,"  he  said.  "  Ended  !  ended  !  for  ever  end- 
ed !" 

As  Anne  drove  away,  she  thought  how  comfort- 
able Warre's  house  was,  how  agreeable  it  would  be 
to  live  there,  and  how  much  she  loved  him.  She 
did  not  consider  him  handsome ;  his  good  looks 
were  of  a  type  which  she  did  not  understand.     She 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM. 


71 


liked  something  more  conventional — more  effective,  in 
fact.  But  he  was  very  nice,  and  what  lovely  Persian 
carpets !  What  fine  pictures  on  the  staircase  !  he 
surely  made  a  lot  of  money.  And  he  was  no  doubt 
generous.  The  servant  looked  contented.  O,  Simon 
was  charming ;  she  loved  him  dearly.  She  hoped 
the  drawing-room  was  large.  All  the  interesting 
people  in  London  would  come  and  see  them.  She 
would  have  a  great  wedding,  for,  of  course,  he 
meant  to  marry  her.  He  had  told  her  to  break  off 
with  the  other  brute.  And  the  other  was  a  brute. 
She  hated  him.  But  he  had  given  her  some  beauti- 
ful presents.  Would  she  be  obliged  to  send  them 
back? 

The  Danes'  mansion  in  Portland  Place  had  been 
furnished  to  resemble  as  closely  as  possible  the  dwell- 
ings of  the  great,  as  they  are  shown  on  the  stage  of 
fashionable  theatres.  This,  however,  was  not  Sarah's 
ordering,  but  her  husband's ;  the  poor  lady  suffered 
in  that  upholstered  Eden.  She  received  Anne  in  her 
boudoir — a  room  which  had  been  arranged  with  un- 
comfortable luxury  in  the  falsely  Oriental  style,  and 
which  formed  the  most  inappropriate  background 
conceivable  for  the  dowdy  little  woman  who  spent 
her  time  there.  Goldfish  sported  in  an  alabaster 
fountain  near  the  lattice  window;  a  crystal  lamp 
hung  over  the  low  couch  ;  palm  and  bamboo  trees, 
tiger-skins  and  embroidered  cushions,  were  scattered 


72  THE   GODS,   SOME    MORTALS, 

here  and  there  with  studied  negligence;  an  ivory 
statuette  of  the  Diana  of  Bernini  and  a  bad  copy  of 
Botticelli's  Virgin  were  placed,  one  on  a  gorgeous 
pedestal  of  malachite  and  lapis  lazuli,  the  other  on 
a  richly-carved  gilt  easel.  A  painted  screen  con- 
taining photographs  of  the  Carrigrohane  family 
shielded  Sarah  from  the  draught;  a  fur  footstool  in 
white  fox  kept  her  feet  warm.  An  odour  of  musk 
and  cedar-wood  filled  the  apartment.  Mrs.  Dane 
was  clothed  in  a  tea-gown  of  slate-coloured  cash- 
mere, trimmed  with  quilted  satin.  She  wore  a  white 
lace  frill  sewn  in  the  neck  of  this  garment,  and  a 
dreadful  pearl  brooch,  in  the  shape  of  a  true  lovers' 
knot,  was  fastened  at  her  throat,  pricking  her  chin 
when  she  moved.  It  would  never  have  entered  her 
head  to  pin  the  atrocious  ornament  a  hair's-breadth 
lower  ;  she  had  the  martyr's  instinct.  She  lifted  her 
tired  eyes  as  Anne  entered,  gave  her  a  cold,  thin 
hand,  and  motioned  her  to  a  seat  near  her  own.  She 
was  a  little  deaf. 

Anne's  senses  were  in  that  state  of  exaltation 
which  not  only  deprived  her  of  the  power  of  speech, 
but  of  all  desire  to  talk.  Women  of  indolent  and  self- 
ish nature  are  rarely  communicative  until  they  have 
exhausted  the  joy  of  silent  imagination,  and  even  then 
they  tell  very  few  of  their  intimate  thoughts.  Anne 
sat  down  by  her  friend,  threw  back  her  head  with  a 
sigh  of  infinite  content,  and  waited  to  be  entertained. 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  73 

What  room,  she  wondered,  in  Warre's  house  could 
serve  as  a  boudoir?  She  would  have  it  prettier  than 
Sarah's.  She  did  not  admire  this  so  much  as  usual. 
It  did  not  seem  so  extraordinarily  magnificent. 
Other  men  besides  Dane  could  afford  to  give  their 
wives  beautiful  things. 

"  You  look  much  better  than  you  did  this  after- 
noon," said  Sarah,  suddenly.  "  I  was  quite  anxious. 
You  need  not  have  been  so  annoyed  about  that  tire- 
some Casmagni.  I  never  care  for  Italians,  and  Al- 
gernon hates  music.  We  went  to  see  you,  dear,  not 
any  one  else.  What  did  it  matter  to  us  whether 
Casmagni  came  or  not.     You  are  too  modest." 

"  Am  I  ?  "  said  Anne,  who  was  already  thinking 
how  little  she  needed  Casmagni  now.  She  would 
offer  him  a  fee  to  sing  at  one  of  her  later  receptions  : 
their  acquaintance  in  future  should  rest  on  a  coldly 
professional  basis.  She  would  remember  every  one 
who  had  been  kind  to  her  when  she  was  poor,  but 
most  of  all,  those  who  had  been  unkind — who  had 
treated  her  as  an  inconsiderable  person. 

Sarah  took  up  some  knitting  and  made  a  few  dull 
remarks  about  her  plans  for  the  summer,  the  Duchess 
of  Wark's  increasing  grey  hairs,  the  crush  at  Lady 
Windegrave's.  And  what  a  pity  it  was  that  the 
Maukin-Fawkcses  had  no  family.  Women  with  chil- 
dren were  the  happiest.  They  had  a  larger  store  of 
affection  than  men,  and   needed   more  creatures  to 


74  THE   GOX>S,  SOME   MORTALS, 

love.  A  great  many  women  died  just  from  hoarding 
devotion. 

"  I  am  the  oldest  creature  I  ever  met,"  she  said. 
Anne  made  no  reply,  but  stared  back.  Sarah  sur- 
veyed the  radiant  face  before  her,  and  sighed  bit- 
terly. "  I  have  been  cheated  out  of  my  youth,"  she 
said.  "  Beauty  is  only  given  to  few,  but  every  one 
that  is  born  has  at  least  the  right  to  be  young.  I 
never  had  a  frolic  in  my  life :  I  do  not  even  know 
the  pleasure  of  giggling.  When  I  hear  girls  giggle, 
it  makes  me  envious.  Oh,  it  is  too  hard  !  Why  did 
they  make  me  marry  ?  I  know  that  there  were 
eight  of  us  at  home,  but  I  was  not  very  much  in  the 
way.  I  gave  as  little  trouble  as  I  could."  The 
work  dropped  from  her  fingers  and  rolled  to  the 
ground.  "I'm  rather  upset,"  she  continued.  "Al- 
gernon told  me  at  dinner — he  dined  at  home  this 
evening  as  he  has  a  headache,  and  feels  too  stupid  to 
go  out — Algernon  told  me  that  Boteler  is  going  to 
divorce  his  wife.     Poor  woman  !  " 

'' \Y\\y  poor  woman?"  said  Anne,  indignantly; 
"  Boteler  gave  her  six  hundred  a  year  for  her 
dress,  and  although  she  hates  the  river,  that  was  a 
splendid  steam-launch  he  had  built  for  her  birth- 
day !  " 

"  He  is  a  bad  husband,"  replied  Sarah,  "  and  her 
child  died.  I  daresay  her  heart  was  broken  before 
she  ran  away  with  Drawne." 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  75 

"  Women  cannot  always  plead  that  they  have 
worthless  husbands,  or  that  their  children  are  dead," 
said  Anne,  who,  with  respectable  prosperity  before 
her  eyes,  felt  an  intolerance  of  sin  and  sinners  which 
she  had  never  known  before.  "  Some  women  are 
merely  vain  and  some  merely  vicious,  and  some  .  .  . 
merely  desperate." 

"  I  daresay,"  said  Sarah,  "  but  I  am  sorry  for 
them  nevertheless.  Oh,  so  sorry  for  them.  Men  do 
not  care  for  a  dull,  plain  little  woman  like  me,  so  I 
have  never  been  tempted.  But  if  I  were,  I  have  no 
reason  to  think  that  I  should  be  any  stronger  than 
the  rest." 

"  Were  you  never  in  love  ?  "  asked  Anne. 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  that  was  long  ago.  He  was  poor, 
and  I  knew  that  if  he  married  at  all  he  would  have 
to  choose  a  woman  with  money.  You  see  it  was 
hopeless  from  the  beginning :  so  he  told  mc  he  loved 
me,  and  I  told  him  I  loved  him,  and  we  kissed  each 
other  good-bye.  That  was  all  that  happened.  It  is 
a  very  short  story  to  tell,  but  it's  my  whole  life, 
Anne.  All  the  rest  is  merely  time — time — just 
hours,  weeks,  and  months.  We  won't  talk  of  that  : 
I  have  something  else  to  say — I  want  to  ask  you  a 
question." 

"A  question?"  said  Anne,  with  a  look  of  ter- 
ror. 

"  I  want  vou  to  tell  mc  your  secret." 


^6  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

The  girl  grew  white  ;  when  she  spoke  her  voice 
was  trembling.  "My  secret?  1  have  no  secret, 
Mrs.  Dane." 

"  But  it  is  written  in  your  eyes.  Ah,  don't  be 
frio-htened.  1  am  the  only  one  who  can  read 
them." 

"  What  do  you  see  there  ?  " 

"A  lover  !  "  said  Sarah.  "Ah  !  you  cannot  deny 
it.  Why  have  you  tried  to  deceive  me  ?  I  knew  it 
all  from  the  first.  He  betrayed  himself.  You  were 
more  demure." 

Anne  stood  up  ;  she  was  shivering,  ghastly.  She 
seemed  enveloped  in  a  white  flame  which  burnt  and 
burnt  without  destroying,  only  leaving  her  power- 
less to  move  or  utter  a  cry.  What  did  Sarah 
know?  What  would  she  do ?  Her  heart  ceased  to 
beat ;  the  ground  seemed  to  rock  under  her  feet ; 
the  room  floated  before  her  eyes  like  a  stifling 
vapour. 

"  If  you  must  say  it,  say  it  quickly,"  she  mur- 
mured.     "  I  am  not  a  coward." 

"  You  are  desperately  in  love  with  him,  and  have 
not  the  courage  to  own  it." 

"  My  God,  no  !  "  cried  Anne.  "  No  !  No  !  That 
is  the  worst  of  it.  I  hate  him  !  I  hate  him !  That 
is  the  worst  of  it.     Be  merciful  !  " 

"  To-day  you  touched  his  glove  when  it  was 
lying  on  the  table,"  said  Sarah.     "  That  did  not  look 


AND    LORD    WICKENHAM.  77 

like  hatred.  Here  it  is ;  I  stole  it  for  you.  What 
would  my  husband  say  if  he  knew  I  had  Dr.  Warre's 
glove  next  my  heart !  " 

"  Warres  glove  ! "  exclaimed  Anne,  the  colour 
rushing  back  into  her  cheeks.  "  Warres  glove.  You 
meant  Warred  She  laughed,  and  laughed,  and 
laughed  ;  threw  herself  on  the  sofa  laughing. 
"  Warres  glove  !      Warre's  glove  !  " 

"  Own  that  I  was  right  and  you  shall  have 
it." 

"  Give  it  to  me  !  " 

Sarah  was  laughing  now  with  real  childish  merri- 
ment. What  fun  it  was  to  tease  Anne !  She  was  so 
emotional.  It  was  as  good  as  a  play.  "  Own  that 
you  have  fallen  in  love  with  him  and  you  shall  have 

it !  "  she  said.     "  Own "     Neither  of  them  heard 

Algernon  Dane  enter  the  room.  lie  came  forward 
with  his  curious  mincing  step,  looking  from  one  to 
the  other  in  astonishment. 

"  How  merry  wc  are  !  "  he  said,  with  his  unpleas- 
ant smile. 

"  We  arc  playing  a  game,  that  is  all,"  said  his 
wife,  still  tittering. 

"  What  game  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Thought-reading,"  answered  Anne,  who  had 
grown  very  quiet. 

"And  I  scared  her,"  snid  Sarah,  gaily.  "Don't 
you  think  she  must  have  some  terrible  secret  ?     Ah  ! 


78  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

1  shall  soon  get  so  wise  that  you  will  all  turn  pale 
when  you  hear  me  coming." 

Algernon  forced  a  laugh  and  left  them.  It  was 
known  that  he  had  a  contempt  for  the  society  of 
virtuous  women. 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


79 


CHAPTER   VII. 

A   SOLILOQUY   DURING   THE   SMALL   HOURS. 

Warre  slept  little  that  night.  He  would  close 
his  eyes  for  a  few  moments  and  lose  himself  in  form- 
less regions,  listening  to  a  far-off  language  which 
seemed  an  echo  of  words  he  had  forgotten  ;  but  it 
was  only  to  wake  again  in  a  world  of  cutting  dis- 
tinctness, and  to  hear  thoughts  he  understood  too 
well.  A  feverish  longing  to  be  at  peace  possessed 
his  spirit.  Work  seemed  to  absorb  all  that  was 
steady,  immutable,  and  sane  in  his  nature  ;  he  could 
only  be  sure  of  his  judgment  in  matters  connected 
with  his  profession.  He  knew  that  his  mind  was  not 
well  balanced  :  in  one  scale  there  was  a  force  and 
weight  which  sometimes  astonished  himself;  in  Ihc 
other,  a  feather-light  heap  of  impulses,  whims,  and 
follies,  of  resisted  temptations,  of  despised  opinions 
— the  refuse  of  a  character.  What  did  it  :ill  rmaii  ? 
Brain  fag?  The  damnable  poetry  he  had  read  in  his 
youth?  An  undisciplined  imagination?  A  romantic 
temperament?     The  desire  for  something  more  than 


80  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

creature  comforts  and  animal  satisfaction?  Why 
could  he  not  be  happy?  Why  this  torturing  dis- 
quietude, these  moods  of  self-contempt,  this  remorse 
for  sins  he  had  never  committed,  this  despairing 
grief  for  a  loss  he  had  never  suffered,  this  ceaseless 
watching  for  a  joy  which  never  came,  this  weary 
search  for  a  treasure  which  could  not  be  found,  this 
longing  for  things  he  could  not  define  ?  And  it  had 
always  been  so;  neither  gratified  ambition,  nor 
money,  nor  amusements,  could  please  him  long;  his 
affection  for  Wickenham  was  the  only  abiding  senti- 
ment in  his  life.  It  was  certainly  a  constant — if  not 
intoxicating — pleasure  to  think  of  Wickenham  ;  to 
admire  his  sturdy,  unassailable  convictions ;  his 
honest  Pagan  heart.  Yet  even  Wickenham  was  not 
a  happy  man  ;  he  never  complained,  never  whined, 
never  showed  discontent;  but  he  lived  under  the 
restraint  of  a  strange,  unaccountable  sadness.  What 
did  it  mean  ?     Did  Wickenham,  too,  have  an  ideal  ? 

Warre  roused  himself  from  these  vain  specula- 
tions by  laughing  aloud  at  the  foolishness  of  two 
able-bodied  young  men,  like  himself  and  his  friend, 
growing  sentimental,  making  themselves  wretched 
because  the  gifts  of  life  were  not  the  gifts  of  a  Heav- 
en which  no  mortal  had  ever  inhabited.  He  took 
courage,  and  faced  the  thought  of  Anne  and  the  let- 
ter he  must  write  to  her  on  the  morrow.  She  was 
very  pretty— adorably  pretty.     She  was  fond  of  him. 


AND   LORD   WICKEXHAM.  3i 

How  difficult  to  grant  this,  and  not  feel  himself  a 
coxcomb!  How  charming  she  was!  How  lucky 
any  man  was  to  win  even  a  little  of  her  affection. 
What  a  brute,  what  a  poor  stick  he  would  be  not  to 
thrill  with  gratitude  for  such  a  gift.  God  forbid 
that  he  should  underestimate  Anne's  sweetness.  He 
did  not  deserve  it;  but  henceforth  it  would  be  his 
task  to  prove  himself  a  shade  less  unworthy.  Love 
was  too  rare  a  thing  to  be  lightly  valued.  There 
was  no  gainsaying  that  beautiful  expression  in  her 
eyes.  He  was  at  last  dear  to  someone ;  someone 
loved  him  purel}^  simply,  childishly.  He  was  tired 
of  passionate  amours.  That  was  why  he  had 
thought  so  seriously  of  marriage  lately.  That  was 
why  he  had  so  nearly  lost  his  head  about  .  .  .  that 
little  girl  ...  in  Rome.  The  recollection  of  Allcgra 
plucked  like  a  hand  at  his  heart.  He  might  sneer 
at  his  weakness,  but  the  truly  excellent  can  never 
satiate — never  lose  its  sway  over  the  affections  of 
men  and  women.  Warre  could  not  persuade  him- 
self that  the  feeling  which  drew  him  towards  AUegra 
was  but  a  sentimental  sensuality — a  mood  born  of  that 
craving  for  an  amorous  adventure  which  steals  over 
the  strongest  and  wisest  with  an  intensity  exactly 
commensurate  with  their  strength  and  wisdom. 
But  she  was  the  embodiment  of  all  the  romantic 
dreams  of  his  boyhood  and  youth  :  the  being  he  had 
sought  in  every  heroine,  the  Beatrice,  the  Iranccsca, 


$2  THE   GODS,   SOME    MORTALS, 

the  Lady  Hamilton,  the  Juliet,  the  Mary  of  his  imag- 
ination. She  had  taught  him  that  his  fancy  did  not 
lie.  The  woman  he  had  conjured  up  from  the  deli- 
cious mist  and  vague  of  chivalrous  tales,  religious 
fancies,  heroic  lives,  and  immemorial  legends  really 
lived.  The  poets  and  lovers  of  history  had  written 
no  falsehoods,  cherished  no  vain  illusions.  Was  it 
not  something — nay,  everything — to  have  learnt 
this?  And  if  he  might  never  look  on  Allegra  again, 
never  again  hear  the  music  of  her  voice,  never  feel 
the  innocent  witchery  of  her  eyes,  the  inspiration  of 
her  presence,  he  had  at  least  once  seen  her,  once 
spoken  w'ith  her  face  to  face,  loved  her  then,  and  now 
loved  her  for  all  time. 

But  Anne? 

Should  he  mope  for  the  unattainable,  and  spend 
his  days  in  melancholy  solitude?  This  would  be 
neither  manly  nor  Dantesque.  He  would  marry — 
not  to  find  forgetfulness,  but  that  remembrance 
might  be  less  bitter.  .  .  .  Anne  was  plainly  a  domes- 
tic woman :  one  who  would  take  an  absorbing  con- 
cern in  her  home,  her  husband,  her  children,  dinner- 
giving,  the  management  of  servants,  the  paying  and 
receiving  of  afternoon  calls.  She  had  all  the  sound 
feminine  instincts.  Heaven  be  praised  !  she  was  not 
artistic.  The  dust  of  Bohemianism  she  had  gained 
from  her  brief  pilgrimage  in  the  musical  world  could 
be  brushed  off  in. a  day.     And  she  looked  like  a  prin- 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  83 

cess  in  a  fairy  tale.  What  a  jewel  he  had  found,  to 
be  sure !  She  was  a  good  little  creature,  too.  In 
passing  an  ivory  crucifix  which  he  had  bought  in 
Rome,  she,  not  knowing  that  he  could  see  her,  had 
kissed  it  devoutly.  A  wife  should  be,  above  all 
things,  religious.  He  would  love  her  for  her  piety. 
It  was  amazing  that  she  had  kept  either  her  faith  or 
her  innocence  in  that  miserable  boarding-house,  in 
the  pitiable  struggle  for  a  small  success,  with  that 
whining,  self-deceived  mother.  And  who  was  the 
man  like  Algernon  Dane?  Could  it  be  a  relative  of 
Dane's?  Dane's  manner  with  Anne  was  certainly 
rather  offensive  .  .  .  there  was  a  nameless  .  .  . 

The  night  was  long.  If  there  had  only  been 
Anne  to  think  of,  how  soon  he  could  have  fallen 
asleep.  She  touched  his  interest  so  lightly.  It  was 
not  easy  to  put  her  out  of  his  mind,  because  it  re- 
quired such  an  effort  of  will  to  keep  her  there. 
Choosing  a  wife  was  a  business,  a  labour,  a  disheart- 
ening task.  He  had  made  his  choice.  He  would 
marry  Anne,  and  leave  the  rest  to  the  gods.  Once  a 
husband,  he  would  try  to  convince  himself  that  cease- 
less yawning  was  the  fit  and  peaceful  occupation  of  a 
satisfied  soul ;  he  would  make  friends  again  with  his 
books,  try  to  spin  his  life  out  of  the  old  dull  threads 
.  .  .  and  work. 

Work! 

And  alas!   he  was  so  tired  of   W(;rk.     Oh,  to  es- 


84  THE   GODS,   SOME    MORTALS, 

cape  for  one  enchanted  moment  into  that  undiscov- 
ered country  whose  sapphire  rivers  flow  through 
gardens  of  oleander  and  idleness,  and  where  the  wil- 
lows sigh  in  the  scent-laden  winds  ;  where  the  acacia 
spreads  her  delicate  lace  against  an  azure  sky  ;  where 
lii2:ht  is  the  betrothal  of  the  moon's  silver  and  the 
sun's  gold.  There  to  lie  on  the  flower-sweet  grass 
and  watch  the  deathless  nymphs  dance  a  perpetual 
youth  to  countless  time  in  robes  of  ever-varying  hue, 
to  music  of  ever-changing  harmony,  to  the  murmur 
of  insects  and  the  song  of  the  nightingale  ;  to  drive 
white  oxen  down  the  long  avenues  of  ilex,  or  wander 
through  vineyards  where  the  air  would  be  sleepy 
like  wine  and  the  fragrance  heavy  with  oblivion. 
O  undiscovered  country !  Why  is  it  so  easily  im- 
agined ?  Why  would  it  be  so  impossible  to  live 
there — and  be  happy  ? 

Morning  came,  and  with  it  an  awakening  to 
things  real,  to  the  blessed  necessity  of  striving  with 
other  minds  than  one,  of  considering  other  problems 
than  those  egoistic. 

"  Thank  God,"  cried  Warre,  "  there  is  my  work  ! 
That  is  the  one  abiding  solace !  But,  Allegra,  if  you 
had  only  cared  for  me  ...  a  little  !  " 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  85 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

CONTRITION   IN   THE   ROBUST. 

When  Anne  arose  that  same  day,  it  was  some 
hours  later,  and  after  a  night  of  untroubled  repose. 
Her  little  room  was  on  the  attic-floor,  and  through 
the  one  small  window,  which  was  cut  high  near  the 
sloping  ceiling,  she  could  see  the  black  roofs  of 
the  neighbouring  houses,  their  chimneys  spouting 
smoke,  and  the  sky.  Here  and  there  the  spire  of  a 
church  thrust  its  point  into  the  horizon,  and,  far 
away  to  the  left,  there  was  a  mews  where  every  tiny 
casement  over  each  stable  door  had  its  ledge  packed 
with  pots  of  geranium,  creeping  Jenny,  and  blossom- 
less  rose-trees.  Sometimes  a  coachman's  wife  would 
appear  above  them,  calling  to  her  man  below,  or  to 
her  children  playing  in  the  yard  ;  one  could  hear 
voices,  laughter,  swearing,  cries,  the  clatter  of  feet 
on  the  stone-paving,  and  the  trample  of  horses,  their 
neighing,  and  the  crack  of  whips.  One  woman  sang  ; 
her  clear,  fresh  notes  had  the  tone  of  the  country  and 
the  woods  and  the  birds.      But  her  songs  were  all 


86  'IIIK   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

about  "  booce,"  and  two  lovely  black  eyes,  and  the  pal 
who  had  had  a  bit  of  money  left  him.  .  .  .  Anne's 
iron  bed  was  covered  with  a  patchwork  quilt  made 
from  cotton  stufTs  cut  out  in  clumsy  diamonds;  a 
square  of  faded  matting  was  spread  in  the  centre  of 
the  floor,  the  boards  around  were  bare.  A  zinc  bath, 
a  pier-glass,  and  a  wash-hand-stand  of  painted  deal 
formed  the  sole  furniture.  The  girl  used  to  open 
her  eyes  each  morning,  survey  the  meagre  scene  with 
disgust,  and  say  :  "  How  long  ?  "  To-day  she  awoke 
smiling.  Poor  little  room  !  She  would  be  almost 
sorry  to  leave  it.  If  Simon  came  to  see  her  that 
day,  it  would  not  be  until  the  afternoon.  If  he 
wrote,  she  could  not  receive  the  letter  for  some 
hours.  How  could  she  kill  the  time?  Ordinarily, 
she  would  have  sung  her  scales,  read  the  newspaper, 
and  walked  in  the  Row.  But  she  would  save  the 
Row  for  the  morrow,  when  Warre  could  accompany 
her.  What  fun  it  would  be  to  see  amazement  on  all 
the  faces  she  was  so  heartily  sick  of — and  yet  feared  ! 
In  the  meantime,  however,  why  not  go  to  church? 
It  would  be  a  nice  thing  to  tell  Simon  when  he  came 
or  when  she  answered  his  letter.  ''Darling,'"  she 
would  say,  "  wlum  I  was  in  church  this  mornittg,  I  could 
not  keep  my  thoughts  front  wanderitig  to  you.  I  hope 
this  was  not  wicked?"  Besides,  it  would  please  God. 
He  had  been  very  kind  to  her,  after  all,  and  .  .  .  she 
had  not  been  .  .  .  devout  .  .  .  lately. 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  Sy 

During  the  service — and  being  a  week-day  it  was 
short — she  applied  herself  with  diligence  to  every 
prayer,  with  her  eyes  fixed  in  an  ecstasy  on  the 
altar,  her  hands  clasped  in  fervour.  She  had  never 
felt  so  happy,  nor  so  eager  to  do  right,  to  excel  in 
all  the  virtues.  She  was  deeply  sorry  for  all  her 
transgressions;  her  life  in  the  future  would  be  dif- 
ferent. She  asked  for  strength  to  keep  her  pious 
resolutions,  prayed  very  amiably  for  such  blessings 
as  might  be  £-ood  for  Simon  and  her  parents,  and  got 
up  from  her  knees  in  that  condition  of  bodily  peace 
and  serenity  which  is  more  often  the  portion  of  a 
healthy  sinner  than  a  penitent  soul. 

Algernon  Dane  was  standing  in  the  porch. 

"  What  in  the  world  is  this  new  fancy  ?  "  said  he, 
"  all  this  mewing  and  praying  ?  I  saw  you  leave  the 
house  and  I  followed  you  here.  ,  But  what  does  it 
mean?  What  does  it  amount  to?  For  goodness 
sake  give  it  up.  It  is  so  depressing  .  .  .  your  look  is 
enough  to  freeze  one.  Religion  does  not  suit  you. 
I  have  been  watching  you  for  the  last  half-hour,  and 
I  never  saw  such  a  performance  in  my  life.  A  dying 
duck  !  " 

Anne  walked  silently  beside  him  until  they 
reached  a  corner  of  the  street,  when,  evidently  fol- 
lowing a  habit,  they  turned  into  a  dismal  road  lined 
with  leafless  trees,  and  houses  with  gardens  of  dead 
evergreens. 


88  THE    GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

"  You  always  sneer  at  me,"  said  the  girl,  "  when  I 
try  to  get  above  my  mud-heap.  But  1  have  done 
with  you.  You  and  I  can  have  nothing  more  to  say 
to  each  other.     Now  let  me  go." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  asked  Dane.  "  Who  is 
going  to  pay  your  bills?  " 

A  woman  who  could  have  so  gross  an  insult  of- 
fered her,  even  by  such  a  man  as  Dane,  would  not 
be  the  woman  to  feel  it.  Anne  accepted  it  with 
serenity.     "  I  have  changed,"  she  said. 

"  You  are  in  love  with  Warre !  "  shouted  Dane. 
"Do  you  think  1  have  been  fooled  for  one  instant? 
I  know  you  too  well,  my  girl !  Warre's  girl !  Any 
man's  girl?" 

"  You  are  very  rude  and  very  unkind." 

"You  deserve  it,"  he  said,  "although  I  do  not 
wish  to  abuse  you.  But  I  am  not  a  saint,  and  when 
I  see  you  with  these  righteous  airs  it  is  more  than  I 
can  stand.  You  are  no  better  than  I  am — not  a  whit 
better." 

"That  is  the  worst  of  it,"  she  replied.  "But  I 
see  that  I  have  been  wrong.  I  feel  it.  You  do  not 
see  your  dishonour?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  do,"  he  said.  "  I  know  a  lot  of  peo- 
ple who  would  call  me  a  blackguard." 

"  Why  don't  you  try  and  lead  a  better  life  ?  " 

"  I  will,  if  I  can  find  some  pretty  woman  to  say 
prayers  with  me.      I  know  the  sort  of  hypocrisy — 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  89 

talking  over  the  six  deadly  sins  and  looking  a 
seventh.  Bah !  Women  like  you  always  reform 
when  there  is  a  rich  husband  in  sight.  They  begin 
to  long  for  the  peaceful  joys  of  domesticity.  I  re- 
spect these  penitents  who  leave  one  man  because  he 
is  a  sinner,  to  deceive  another  because  he  is  a  vSaint. 
Oh,  Anne,  I  know  you  so  well !  " 

He  looked  at  her  as  he  spoke,  and  studied,  in  an 
agony  of  admiration,  her  delicate  profile,  the  fresh 
and  child-like  lips,  the  arched  eyebrows  and  glisten- 
ing hair.  She  was  tall,  with  divine  shoulders ;  there 
was  an  elegant  defiance  in  her  gait.  He  knew  of  no 
marble  goddess  so  imposing,  so  beautiful,  so  allur- 
ing. And  he  had  been  a  great  traveller ;  had  seen  a 
lot  of  women  .  .  .  purchased  many  works  of  art. 

"Come,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "make  it  up.  I  would 
have  bought  you  that  tiara  long  ago,  but  I  was  afraid 
all  the  old  cats  would  talk.  They  will  forgive  a  few 
smart  dresses,  but  they  won't  stand  diamonds.  They 
would  say  it  wasn't  all  done  by  singing.  I  was  only 
thinking  of  your  reputation  ;  I  never  see  any  harm 
in  anything  .  .  .  what  were  we  born  for?  It's  so 
natural  to  love  a  pretty  woman.  I'm  prepared  to  go 
to  any  length.  .  .  .  I'll  settle  something  handsome  on 
Sarah  ;  give  her  the  Portland  Place  house  for  life, 
and  take  you  abroad.  I  will  make  any  sacrifice  to 
please  you.  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  so  keen 
on  the  tiara.    You  cannot  say  that  I  have  ever  denied 


go  THE   t;ODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

you  anything.  Come  back  into  the  church  and  talk 
things  over.  It  is  beginning  to  rain.  Where's  the 
umbrella  I  gave  you  last  week?  I  knew  you  would 
like  that  handle  .  .  .  tortoiseshcU  and  emeralds.  I 
have  been  kind  to  you,  haven't  I  ?  Three  or  four 
women  have  been  making  up  to  me  lately — titled 
women,  too,  but  I  have  put  them  off." 

They  entered  the  church.  One  old  man  was  pray- 
ing in  a  remote  corner ;  otherwise  it  was  empty. 
The  greyness,  the  cold,  and  the  silence  were  horrible 
to  Dane. 

"  There's  only  one  way  to  go  to  church,"  he  said, 
"  and  that's  in  a  coffin.  I  wish  it  would  stop  raining. 
It's  warmer  outside." 

Anne,  as  though  she  had  not  heard  him  and  was 
even  unaware  of  his  presence^  knelt  down.  Where 
had  she  learnt  this  composure.'*  Her  face  was  as 
calm  as  a  medallion  of  the  Virgin  which  decorated  a 
memorial-tablet  on  the  wall  over  her  head.  She 
seemed  in  a  stupor  of  happiness. 

"  Say  something  !  "  exclaimed  Dane. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  sa}'.  And  I  cannot  listen  to 
you  here.     You  forget  where  we  are." 

"  No,  I  don't.  I  have  kissed  you  by  that  pillar 
many  times." 

"  I  have  changed,"  she  repeated,  and  read  her 
Prayer-Book.  An  amethyst  bracelet,  which  Dane 
had  given  her  in  the  first  days  of  their  acquaintance, 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM. 


91 


dropped  from  her  wrist.  He  picked  it  up  and  put  it 
into  his  own  pocket. 

"  That's  mine  !  "  he  said. 

Anne  showed  no  surprise,  felt  none.  She  was  no 
critic  in  matters  of  conduct,  and  was  as  incapable  of 
despising  a  meanness  as  she  was  of  appreciating  a 
chivalrous  sentiment.  She  coloured  with  annoy- 
ance, however,  that  Dane  had  been,  as  it  were,  too 
clever  for  her.  But  he  laughed  aloud  himself,  and, 
as  she  was  good-humoured,  the  corner  of  her  mouth 
trembled  a  little  in  sympathy.  The  strongest  link 
between  them  was  a  common  desire  for  gain,  for 
making  a  shrewd  bargain,  for  getting  more,  if  pos- 
sible, than  one's  money's  worth  out  of  life.  Theirs 
was  the  Gospel  of  Give  and  Take.  Anne  threw 
Dane  a  glance  which  was  a  compound  of  congratu- 
lation and  envv.  Now,  he  thought,  they  were  be- 
ginning to  understand  each  other  once  more.  She 
would  soon  come  round.  There  was  nothing  like 
letting  a  woman  know  that  one  had  a  certain  amount 
of  proper  pride,  of  self-respect ;  that  one  would  not 
be  treated  like  a  dog.  And  yet  .  .  .  that  implacable 
rose-leaf  countenance.  And  tliat  eternal  praying, 
lie  touched  her  arm,  and  grew  faint,  sick,  death- 
like at  the  mere  contact. 

"  If  you  want  to  flirt  with  Warre,"  he  murmured, 
getting  hoarse,  "  I  won't  be  unreasonable  about  it. 
I  won't  ask  any  questions  ...  he  isn't  worth  a  quar- 


t)2  THE   GODS.  SOME    MORTALS, 

rel.  But  he  won't  be  generous  .  .  .  he's  too 
young  and  good-looking  ...  he  thinks  that  gen- 
erosity isn't  necessary.  He  doesn't  understand 
women." 

"  He  has  asked  me  to  marry  him,"  said  Anne, 
stung  into  defending  her  market  value. 

He  looked  incredulous,  derisive.  "  I  believe 
that,"  he  observed,  drily.  Why  did  she  always  in- 
vent such  silly  lies? 

"  If  I  were  going  to  tell  a  lot  of  beastly  false- 
hoods," he  said,  "  I  swear  I  wouldn't  do  it  in  church 
and  over  a  Prayer-Book.  That  is  going  a  little  too 
far,  even  for  me.  And  I'm  not  a  Pharisee.  Of 
course,  girls  always  want  to  make  out  that  some- 
body is  dying  to  marry  them.  That's  an  old  trick 
...  it  only  deceives  boys.  .  As  if  a  fellow  like 
Warre  would  choose  you  for  his  wife,  my  dear.  I 
wouldn't  do  that  myself,  and  I  am  very  fond  of  you  !  " 

"What  is  there  against  me?"  she  asked.  His 
face  was  convulsed  with  a  terrible  smirk ;  he 
dropped  his  eyes  discreetly. 

"  I  have  told  him  all  about  you,"  said  Anne. 

Dane  sprang  to  his  feet,  livid  with  fear,  with 
rage,  with  disappointed  passion.  "  What !  "  he  said, 
"  what?     You  have  betrayed  me?" 

"  I  managed  it  very  well,"  replied  Anne.  "  I  did 
not  mention  names.  I  am  much  too  fond  of  poor 
Sarah  to  do  anything  of  that  kind." 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  93 

"  You  are  a  very  wicked  woman,"  said  Dane, 
whimpering  with  relief,  "  and  you  can  go  to  the 
devil.     I  don't  want  you.     Go,  for  God's  sake,  go  !  " 

Anne  stood  up.  Lifting  her  skirt  from  the  dust, 
she  tripped  delicately  past  him — without  a  glance 
.  .  .  without  a  gesture,  and  out  of  the  church. 

"  Go !  "  repeated  Dane,  but  in  a  weaker  voice. 
With  a  vacant  stare,  he  watched  the  swinging  door 
through  which  she  had  vanished,  and  which  still 
trembled  on  its  hinges  .  .  .  wailing  .  .  .  creaking. 
He  summoned  up  his  strength  for  a  cry  which  she 
could  not  hear,  and  shouted  again  : 

"  Go,  for  God's  sake  !  " 

Then,  on  tip-toe,  he  stole  into  another  aisle  where 
there  was  an  old-fashioned  pew  with  curtains.  And 
there  he  hid  himself  to  weep  .  .  .  and  curse. 


94 


THE   GODS.   SOME    MORTALS, 


CHAPTER   IX. 

MORTAL   HAPPINESS. 

After  those  ashen  hours  before  dawn,  and  until 
the  instant  when  Warre  ascended  the  staircase  which 
led  to  the  drawing-room  in  Southwick  Terrace,  he 
had  not  suffered  himself  to  think  again  of  Anne  or  of 
what  he  should  say  when  they  met.  Was  it  because 
he  would  have  found  no  pleasure  in  the  anticipation  ? 
The  unknown  prospect  lay  before  his  mind,  like  the 
scene,  which,  on  entering  a  theatre,  one  knows  must 
shortly  be  discovered  by  the  curtain.  And  now  that 
the  appointed  time  was  come  for  the  uplifting  of  that 
veil,  he  felt  an  indifference  so  terrible,  that,  when  the 
servant  opened  the  door,  and  he  saw  Anne  standing 
by  the  piano,  her  face  pale  with  emotion  and  its 
pallor  intensified  by  the  scarlet  dress  she  wore,  he 
seemed  to  be  looking  at  a  stranger. 

"Is  it  you?"  she  said,  and  came  towards  him 
with  both  hands  held  out — a  pretty,  begging  gesture 
instinctive  and  unstudied — symbolic  of  much  that 
was  to  come  in  their  two  lives.     Self-confidence  had 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


95 


given  her  prettiness  a  more  severe  character  .  .  . 
the  arrogant  calm  which  is  sometimes  mistaken  for 
moral  grandeur.  She  possessed  that  profane  beauty 
which  entrances  every  sense  and  afflicts  the  soul 
with  a  dream-troubled  sleep  out  of  which  it  tries  to 
wake,  and  may  not ;  from  the  lethargy  of  which  it 
tries  to  rouse  and  remember  .  .  .  warnings  once 
heard  .  .  .  resolves  once  taken  .  .  .  and  cannot. 
Warre  took  her  white  hands  and  looked,  without 
speaking,  into  her  unreadable  blue  eyes. 

"  Is  it  you  ?  "  she  repeated  again. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  he  said,  with  an  ironical  smile. 
It  was  that  brief  moment  of  self-condemnation  which 
makes  the  first  second  and  the  last  of  every  foolish 
hour.  And  the  period  which  passes  between  those 
two  throbs  of  time  may  not  be  the  sixty  minutes  of 
human  counting,  but  a  whole  youth — a  manhood. 
Anne  wore  a  bunch  of  heliotrope  in  her  belt,  and  its 
perfume  drenched  the  commonplace  room  with  a 
languid,  cloying  sweetness.  Sunlight  and  dust 
streamed  in  through  the  open  windows,  and,  now 
near  and  now  far  away,  the  ponderous,  incessant 
rumble  of  wheels  on  the  Uxbridge  Road  gave  a 
deeper  tone  to  the  hum  which  is  never  absent  from 
the  noisy  air  of  a  great  city.  They  were  repairing 
the  pavement  and  the  street  below,  and  the  sharp 
kiss  of  hammer  and  stone,  of  pick-axe  and  ground, 
made   a  sort  of  barbarous  music — a  clash,  a  clang,  a 


^6  THE   GODS,   SOME    MORTALS, 

cry — a  cry,  a  clang,  a  crash,  wailiiii^,  monotonous — fit, 
inharmonious  tune  of  those  who  would  mend 
and  patch  an  earth  so  impatient  under  men's  la- 
bour. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  ? "  asked  Anne.  "  You 
said  you  would  write  but  I  hoped  you  would  come — 
I  hoped  you  would  wish  to  see  me.  I  wanted  to  see 
you.  .  .  .  What  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"  Am  I  thinking,"  he  replied.  **  I  feel  as  though 
I  had  forgotten  everything." 

"  Ah  ! "  she  exclaimed,  with  womanly  delight, 
"  do  you  love  me  so  much  as  that?  " 

He  made  no  answer,  but  took  her  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  the  question  from  her  lips.  "  Never  ask  me," 
he  said,  at  last,  "  never  ask  me  whether  I  care  for 
you.  I  am  not  a  man  who — s.a3'S  a  great  deal."  He 
walked  away  to  the  sofa,  and  Anne  seated  herself  at 
his  feet,  with  her  head  against  his  knees. 

"  We  must  be  the  happiest  people  in  the  world," 
she  murmured.  "  I  can  hardly  believe  that  this  is  all 
true  .  .  .  that  it  is  really  happening  .  .  .  that  we 
have  met  and  loved  each  other,  and  are  going  to  be 
married  .  .  .  going  to  be  together  always  .  .  .  that 
we  are  to  be  everything  to  each  other  .  .  .  every- 
thing. It  is  a  miracle,  it  frightens  me.  O,  I  never 
thought  that  life  could  be  so  wonderful.  I  have 
never  loved  anyone  before  ...  it  is  all  so  new  to 
me,  but  you  .  .  .  you  are  a  man  .  .  .  you  are  older 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  q^j 

than  I  am  .  .  .  you  have  had  more  time.  .  .  .  There 
must  have  been  several." 

"  There  was  one,"  said  Warre,  "  there  was  one  I 
loved  very  much.  But  it  was  not  like  this  .  .  .  not 
like  my  affection  for  you  .  .  .  something  quite  dif- 
ferent." 

"  Did  she  die?"  asked  Anne,  "  or  was  she  a  mar- 
ried woman  ?  These  flirtations  with  married  women 
never  make  men  happy.  I  have  often  heard  that.  I 
wonder  why  people  begin  them  !  " 

"  She  is  not  dead  and  she  is  not  married,"  said 
Warre,  "  but  I  am  not  likely  to  see  her  again — at  least 
for  some  years  !  " 

"  We  need  not  talk  about  her  any  longer,"  said 
Anne,  with  a  pang  of  sudden,  inexplicable  jealousy  ; 
"  she  doesn't  matter.  The  afternoon  is  going.  Tell 
me  why  you  love  me  ?  Tell  me  what  first  made  you 
care  for  me?     Did  you  think  I  was  pretty?  " 

"  V^ery  pretty,  dear,"  he  said,  "very  pretty."  And 
he  turned  away  from  the  intense  glance  of  her  eyes, 
for  they  wearied  him.  She  drew  nearer  and  spoke 
in  a  softer  voice. 

"  We  are  both  young,"  she  whispered,  "and  we 
have  a  long,  long  life  before  us.  Years  and  years. 
And  we  shall  be  so  happy.  You  will  tell  me  all 
your  thoughts  and  I  will  tell  you  mine.  We  shall 
live  for  each  other.  What  are  you  thinking  of  now? 
You  seem   to  be  always   thinking.     And    you    look 


qs  the  gods,  some  mortals, 

over  there.  Look  at  me.  Don't  you  like  my  dress? 
I  could  not  wear  anything  dark  to-day,  although  I 
know  men  admire  black  dresses.  But  I  only  wanted 
to  see  bright  things — I  wanted  to  think  of  summer. 
The  house  is  sombre  enough :  even  with  you  by  my 
side  it  is  hard  to  be  cheerful  here.  And  I  was  so 
anxious  to  look  nice  ...  to  please  you.  .  .  .  Clouds 
soon  come.  No  one  is  happy  long.  There  is  always 
something." 

Warre  had  only  heard  her  indistinctly  :  it  seemed 
a  vague  lament  in  the  distance.  The  woman  he  had 
wished  to  make  glad  was  already  complaining,  al- 
ready  uttering  bitter  words,  already  drooping  in  dis- 
content and  disappointment. 

"  But  you  are  lovely,"  he  exclaimed,  "your  dress 
is  charming  !  When  Dante  first  saw  Beatrice  she 
wore  scarlet."  And  he  remembered  his  meeting 
with  Allegra  in  the  great  desolate  salon  of  the  Pa- 
lazzo Vendramini :  that  long,  strange,  wondering  look 
into  each  other's  eyes :  the  blush  on  Allegra's  face  ; 
then  that  speechless  separation  which  now  seemed 
irrevocable  because  only  one  had  known  its  grief.: 
only  one  had  felt  despair — that  tearless,  white  de- 
spair which  falls  on  the  shoulders  like  a  mantle  of 
stone — for  ever  cold,  never  more  to  be  thrown  aside. 
It  fell  so  lightly  at  first,  almost  like  snow  ...  or  did 
it  stun,  and  for  that  reason  seem  nothing  till  con- 
sciousness returned  ?     And  now  .  .  .  tliis.     Perfume 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  go 

of  heliotrope,  rustle  of  scarlet  silk,  the  point  of  a 
little  slipper  worked  in  beads :  dust  and  sunlight 
pouring  in  at  the  window  (O,  how  suggestive  of 
life  !),  hideous  chintz  on  the  walls :  that  clash,  that 
clang,  that  cry  of  pick-axe,  hammer,  and  stone,  and 
Anne,  young,  fragrant,  living,  heavenly  beautiful, 
speaking  words  of  human  love!  If  she  would  only 
promise  not  to  question,  not  to  think  or  wonder. 
What  should  it  matter  to  her  what  was  passing  in 
his  soul !  He  would  give  her  his  name,  his  home,  his 
worldly  possessions :  he  would  save  her  from  labour 
and  sorrow,  care  for  her  always,  but  his  thoughts 
were  his  own,  his  memories  his  own,  his  regrets — 
his  dreams,  his  own  ! 

"  Dear,"  he  said,  "  if  I  ever  seem  silent,  or  cold, 
or  melancholy,  you  must  try  to  forgive  it.  A  man 
with  a  profession  has  many  things  to  make  him 
troubled,  to  make  him  anxious — which  sympathy 
cannot  lessen,  and  which,  in  any  case,  will  not  bear 
defining.  They  are  mists  that  fall  on  the  mind — 
mists." 

"But  why  have  you  got  this  mood  to-day?" 
cried  Anne.  She  stood  up,  hurt,  and  frowning. 
"Why  have  you  got  this  mood  to-day?"  she  re- 
peated ;  "  is  it  my  fault  ?  " 

"  It  is  my  own  accursed  disposition,"  he  said. 
"  Come  !  help  me  to  forget  it." 

The  girl  sat  down  by  his  side  and  put  her  arms 


lOO  THE   cons,  SOME    MORTALS, 

round  him  with  that  protective,  ahnost  maternal 
tenderness  which  is  seldom  entirely  absent  from  the 
love  even  of  the  coldest  women.  Anne  had  much 
passion  of  the  calculating  and  deliberate  kind,  but 
very  little  affection,  very  little  generosity,  very  little 
sweetness  in  her  nature.  What  she  possessed,  how- 
ever, she  gave  to  Warre.  He  was  rich,  he  was 
good-looking,  he  was  clever,  he  was  kind ;  she  be- 
lieved he  admired  her  to  frenzy  ;  that  he  was  des- 
perately in  love  with  her.  Sometimes  she  had  found 
herself  wondering  whether  she  would  not  have  liked 
him  almost  as  well  if  he  had  been  quite  poor  ...  a 
mere  clerk  in  the  City.  He  could  have  tempted  her 
to  enter  into  a  foolish  marriage  .  .  .  she  would  have 
regretted  it  bitterly,  but  for  a  time  .  .  .  possibly  for 
a  whole  year  ...  it  might  have  seemed  worth  many 
sacrifices.  He  was  not  an  ordinary  man  ...  he  was 
not  so  suspicious — he  was  much  more  easily  de- 
ceived. Yet  not  a  fool !  She  hated  fools.  They 
were  so  cruel  ...  so  spiteful. 

"I  love  you!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  love  you! 
You  are  so  good  to  me  !  .  .  .  I  love  you  !  " 

Where  there  was  so  much  beauty,  and  so  much 
charm,  and  so  much  delicate  abandon,  who  would 
not  feel  a  kindling  of  every  lover-like  emotion? 
Anne's  embrace  gave  Warre  no  happiness,  no  peace 
of  mind,  but  it  was  a  certain  pleasure  .  .  .  sensuous, 
beguiling  .  .  .  something  infinitely  more  agreeable, 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  loi 

for  instance,  than  sitting  alone  in  his  study,  longing 
vainly  for  the  sight  of  a  face,  which,  after  all,  had 
never  smiled  more  than  a  pale  friendliness  at  him. 
Anne  caught  his  hand,  covered  it  with  passionate 
kisses.  "And  now,"  she  said,  "  let  us  talk  about  our- 
selves.  And  about  the  wedding,  and  the  people  we 
must  invite  to  it.  Will  Lord  Wickenham  lend  us  his 
place  at  Weyborough  for  the  honeymoon?" 

He  laughed  a  little,  and  deluded  himself  by  try- 
ing to  feel  that  they  were  contemplating  a  future 
which  would  never  dawn,  discussing  events  which 
by  no  possibility  could  ever  come  to  pass.  This 
was  a  fantastic  comedy— a  thing  of  no  significance, 
and  which  could  not  last.  With  this  false  belief  to 
still  his  reason,  he  was  able  to  display  an  enthusiasm 
which  delighted  the  young  girl.  What  power  she 
had  over  him !  How  she  could  charm  away  his 
moods!  They  invented  imaginary  interviews  be- 
tween this  friend  and  that  on  the  subject  of  the  mar- 
riage :  how  one  would  sneer,  and  another  croak,  and 
a  third — merely  out  of  contrariety — applaud.  What 
fun  it  would  be  !     What  endless  fun  ! 

"  Great  fun  !  "  said  Warre. 

Then  she  grew  serious.  An  instinct  warned  her 
that  he  was  not  a  man  to  encourage  in  any  flippant 
view  of  their  betrothal. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "your  offer  and 
your  love  mean  more  to  mc  than  an  engagement  ring. 


I02  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

To  every  woman  the  prospect  of  a  home  is  most  al- 
hiring,  but  to  one  who  has  had  to  fight  with  poverty 
.  .  .  who  has  suffered.  O,  Simon,  if  anything  should 
come  between  us.  Think  what  it  would  mean.  To 
have  known  happiness,  to  have  had  it  within  one's 
grasp,  and  then  to  go  back  again  to  the  old  tempta- 
tions .  .  .  the  old  privations  and  humiliations  ...  I 
could  not!  I  could  not!  Oh,  never  disappoint  me! 
When  I  once  lose  faith  in  men,  1  shall  lose  faith  in 
God,  for  they  are  his  witnesses  !  " 

To  what  degree  was  this  strange  being  sincere? 
From  the  depth  of  her  transient  emotions  she  would 
sometimes  utter  the  sentiments  of  no  common  mind, 
no  simply  animal  heart,  no  merely  airy  soul.  Warre 
that  day  believed  in  her  utterly,  and  at  no  time  could 
he  ever  bring  himself  to  regard,  her  as  an  incorrigible 
impostor.  She  had  a  nature  of  strong  impulses,  a 
defective  education  in  weak  principles,  and  that  ex- 
citable temperament  which  needs  every  bodily  satis- 
faction to  keep  it  sane.  In  the  absence  of  material 
aids  there  is  only  one  intellectual  gift  which  can  save 
either  men  or  women  of  this  type  from  complete 
degradation,  and  that  is  a  desire  for  romance^  for  re- 
finement, for  the  poetic.  And  Anne  was  a  stranger 
to  this  purifying  influence.  She  had  that  appalling 
brutality  of  mental  constitution  which  is  more  often 
found  in  creatures  of  delicate  appearance  and  great 
nervous  force  than  in  those  whose  even  health  and 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM. 


103 


robust  air  are  the  effect — less  than  the  cause — of  their 
tranquil  spirit.  Culture  may  do  much,  but  nothing 
can  alter  the  quality  of  one's  moral  fibre ;  if  it  be 
coarse,  it  must  remain  coarse,  and  although  it  may 
be  spun  into  silk,  it  will  be  silk  of  harsh  grain — un- 
yielding, rough.  Anne  had  no  innate  ideal  of  con- 
duct to  make  her  suffer  when  she  fell  beneath  it ;  she 
lived  by  impulse — if  a  good  one,  it  was  well ;  if  a  bad 
one,  it  was  well  also.  She  only  felt  remorse  when  an 
action  turned  to  her  disadvantage,  or  when  some  ad- 
verse judgment  from  a  looker-on  wounded  her  self- 
esteem.  Vanity  was  all  the  conscience  she  possessed  ; 
and  this,  although  Warre  did  not  know  it  then,  was 
why  it  was  so  utterly  impossible  to  love  her,  so  hard 
even  to  admit  her  beauty  without  a  certain  reluc- 
tance, to  even  touch  her  without  an  inward  shrinking 
— a  sort  of  shame.  In  vain  he  stifled  this  instinct, 
and,  although  he  thrust  it  aside,  not  so  much  as 
guessing  though  never  so  dimly  what  it  could  mean, 
it  kept  him  irritable,  dissatisfied,  and  wretched,  even 
when  he  told  himself — as  he  did  that  afternoon — that 
he  was  contented,  far  more  contented,  than  he  had 
ever  believed  it  possible  to  be.  But  he  looked  at  her 
fair,  weak  countenance,  and  what  he  lacked  in  love 
he  trebly  gave  in  sympathy,  in  a  nameless  feeling 
which  he  coulfl  not  analyse,  but  which  he  knew  in 
after  years  was  mainly  pity,  partly  an  unwholesome 
fascination.     Anne  was  not  born  for  civilization,  for 


I04  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

the  life  of  towns,  for  the  restraints  imposed  by  con- 
siderations of  religion,  wealth,  or  custom  ;  but  for 
the  free  and  heedless  existence  of  those  eternal  mor- 
tals who  dwelt  for  a  brief  space  in  fabulous  Eden. 
There,  among  birds  and  flowers  and  fruit,  with  one 
faithful  and  comely  companion,  without  rivals  to  stir 
her  jealousy  or  friends  to  give  her  advice,  she  would 
have  passed  transparent  nights  and  radiant  days ; 
she  would  have  loved  the  inconceivable  Adam ;  she 
would  have  been  blameless  always.  .  .  . 

"How  could  I  deceive  you?"  asked  Warre. 
"How  could  I  willingly  disappoint  you?"  He  ad- 
dressed the  question  to  his  own  heart,  but  Anne  an- 
swered. 

"  Why  do  men  ever  deceive  the  women  who 
trust  them?"  she  said,  pressing  her  cheek  against 
his  shoulder.  "  I  want  you  to  know  the  truth  about 
me.  I  have  a  temper  and  I  am  jealous.  I  have 
flirted  a  little,  too.  Once  I  was  almost  engaged ; 
but  I  have  told  you  about  that,  and  now  you  know 
everything." 

Warre  laughed  at  this  childish  confession.  What 
simplicity  !     What  innocence  ! 

"Did  I  tell  you,"  he  said,  "that  I  called  at  the 
Bank  this  morning  and  saw  your  father?  He  was 
somewhat  surprised  to  see  me." 

"  I  hope  he  did  not  talk  about  settlements  and 
tedious  things  like  that,"  said  Anne. 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  105 

"  It  will  be  all  right,"  replied  Warre,  "  we  agreed 
splendidly."  The  interview  had  been  a  strange  one. 
The  baronet  had  shown  great  astonishment  at  the 
idea  that  any  man  should  wish  to  marry  his  daugh- 
ter. He  pointed  out  with  blunt  kindness  that  he 
himself  could  not  give  her  a  penny.  She  sometimes 
earned  a  handsome  fee  for  singing,  and  this  she 
spent  in  cab-fares  and  finery. 

"  Anne  likes  to  gad,"  he  said,  "and  although  1  do 
not  approve  of  so  young  a  girl  rushing  about  Lon- 
don without  her  mother,  what  is  one  to  do?  I  know 
that  my  sisters  were  not  brought  up  that  way,  but 
they  are  dead — one  was  an  old  maid  and  the  other 
was  obliged  to  divorce  her  husband.  A  sad  case ! 
Poor  Minnie !  Besides,  I  must  have  some  peace  of 
my  life ;  I  cannot  wear  myself  out  giving  advice 
which  is  never  followed,  and  which,  after  all,  may 
not  be  particularly  good.  Anne  and  her  mother 
have  rows,  but  then  women  are  only  happy  when 
they  are  making  each  other  miserable.  If  you 
marry  Anne,  I  daresay  she  will  turn  out  as  good 
a  wife  as  another.  It's  all  a  chance.  Sometimes 
the  most  unlikely  matches  turn  out  uncommonly 
well.  .  .  .  Angels  very  often  have  a  tongue  with  a 
tang  .  .  .  you  get  one  of  these  nagging  wives.  I 
never  heard  Anne  nag,  but  that  is  a  habit  which 
comes.  Perhaps  if  one  took  it  in  time.  .  .  .  But  if  1 
were  a  single  man,  I  should  not  be  in  a  hurry  to  settle." 


I06  THE    GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

These  restless  phrases  seemed  to  drop  from  a 
mind  which  was  flying  very  far  from  the  subject 
under  consideration.  Warre  saw  that  Sir  Hugh 
had  long  lost  interest — if,  indeed,  he  had  ever  felt 
it — in  his  home  affairs.  From  later  remarks  he 
made,  it  was  evident  that  what  remained  of  human 
enthusiasm  in  his  vast  frame  was  spent  in  petty 
speculations  on  the  Stock  Exchange.  ...  It  had 
been  a  strange  interview. 

"  I  have  not  said  a  word  to  Mama,"  observed 
Anne.  "  I  am  afraid  she  will  be  troublesome.  She 
has  gone  to  spend  the  day  at  Ealing.  But  she 
doesn't  matter !  " 

"  Nothing  matters,"  said  Warre,  "  if  you  care  for 
me." 

And  so — when  that  visit  ended  and  he  walked 
homewards — he  laboured  to  convince  himself.  A 
momentary  calm  had  settled  on  his  spirit.  He  could 
think  of  Allegra  with  clear  eyes  and  consider  her 
coldness  with  a  less  implacable  resentment.  Was  it 
worth  his  while  to  love  so  unresponsive  a  creature? 
Was  not  distance  investing  her  with  that  convenient 
mist  which  alone  makes  it  possible  for  any  mortal  to 
imagine  extraordinary  virtues  in  another?  They 
were  not  friends  in  any  accepted  sense ;  theirs  had 
been  an  intimacy  of  silence,  not  words ;  they  had 
talked  together  very  seldom.  Was  this  because  they 
could  always  understand  each  other  without  speak- 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


107 


ing  ?  Because  there  was  so  subtle  and  close  a  bond 
between  them  that  speech  was  needless?  And 
whence  came  this  sensation  of  their  inseparability  ? 
Why,  in  spite  of  AUegra's  manner,  could  he  never 
think  of  her  as  someone  apart — someone  wholly  di- 
vided from  his  life  ?  He  was  like  a  man  who  hesi- 
tates between  two  religions — one,  seeming  good, 
promising  much,  possessing  to  all  appearance  every 
necessary,  na}- — every  covetable  gift,  and  the  other, 
mute,  veiled,  mysterious,  inscrutable,  yet  with'  a 
power  to  draw  the  soul  which  neither  casuistry,  nor 
all  the  adverse  evidence  of  the  senses,  nor  accusa- 
tions, nor  mockery,  nor  scepticism  can  overcome. 

'•If  I  could  only  be  cynical  once  more,"  said 
Warre,  "  only  sneer  with  the  rest,  only  laugh  myself 
out  of  this  enervating  sentimentality.  It  must  be  a 
phase  which  wc  all  have  to  pass  through  sooner  or 
later.     I  low  long  does  it  last  ?  " 


I08  iliE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 


CHAPTER  X. 

A   WEDDING. 

The  foolish  young  man  did  not  allow  either  his 
relatives  or  friends  an  opportunity  of  opposing  his 
engagement,  but  was  married  to  Anne  privately  and 
by  special  licence  just  three  weeks  and  a  day  from 
the  time  of  their  first  meeting. 

The  morning  was  dull,  and  the  sky  was  like  the 
grey  and  lustreless  marble  of  some  underground 
tomb  dimmed  by  the  moisture  of  centuries.  Simon 
drove  to  the  church  with  Lord  VVickenham,  and 
they  did  not  exchange  a  remark  till  the  bridegroom 
discovered  that  he  had  forgotten  his  gloves.  They 
halted  at  a  small  shop  on  the  way  and  bought  a  pair. 
Warre  found  no  difficulty  in  drawing  them  on :  his 
hands  were  cold,  stark. 

"  They  are  a  devilish  bad  cut,"  observed  his  lord- 
ship. 

"  I  must  have  told  the  fellow  the  wrong  size,"  re- 
plied Simon. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  the  ring?" 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM. 


109 


"  Yes,"  said  Warre,  "  I  have  the  ring."  He 
seemed  to  have  been  caught  down  into  the  world  of 
inanimate  nature — into  the  state  of  vitality  without 
sense,  without  conscience,  without  pathos.  He  was 
neither  glad  nor  sorry,  agitated  nor  calm.  And  yet 
he  glanced  from  time  to  time  at  his  faithful  friend, 
and  remembered  with  surprise — as  if  it  were  a  privi- 
lege long  forgotten — that  if  he  had  been  in  trouble 
Wickenham  would  have  helped  him  to  bear  it.  It 
was  just  the  look  and  the  remembrance  which  a 
spirit  released  from  mortality  would  give  to  the  one 
he  had  loved  during  his  days  on  earth,  and  who  still 
lived  ;  still  thought  this  bodily  frame  a  thing  of  con- 
sequence, the  joys  of  this  world  worth  striving  for, 
its  woe  worth  lamentation.  Warre  suspected,  how- 
ever, that  Wickenham  was  distressed,  and  vaguely 
wished  he  could  speak,  wished  he  could  say  some 
word  which — even  though  it  could  not  bridge  their 
estrangement — would  take  away  its  pain,  its  wretched 
mystery.  O,  to  make  him  understand  that  he  did 
not  care — that  he  did  not  feel ! 

The  carriage  rolled  on.  Simon  wondered 
whether  it  was  the  sound  of  the  wheels  which  over- 
whelmed the  murmuring  in  his  brain.  At  intervals 
a  pang  of  consciousness,  keen  and  agonising,  shot 
through  the  stupor.  Formless,  appalling,  indescrib- 
able presentiments  of  despair,  regret,  and  anguish 
beat  their   wings  in   the  air,  and  uttered  discordant 


IIO  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

cries,  raind,  unintelligible  warnings.  Could  he  de- 
part from  his  promise?  Could  he  play  the  coward? 
Was  it  too  late  to  turn  back  ?  And  Anne  waiting, 
perhaps — already  waiting  at  the  church — happy,  ex- 
pectant. What  right  had  he  to  spoil  even  a  day  of 
that  fresh  and  innocent  life  because  he  had  obeyed 
a  desperate  impulse,  and  asked  her  to  marry  him  ? 
Was  not  all  the  gift,  all  the  loss,  all  the  venture  on 
her  side?  She  loved  him,  too.  It  was  a  girl's  love 
— pure,  spontaneous,  hardly  conscious  of  its  rich- 
ness, ignorant  of  its  own  passion.  How  little  he 
deserved  it !  Did  all  bridegrooms  suffer  from  panic 
on  their  wedding  morning  ?  He  decided  that  he  was 
the  base  exception,  and,  much  ashamed  of  a  weak- 
ness which  he  would  not  for  kingdoms  have  be- 
trayed to  Wickenham,  he  maintained  the  stern,  im- 
perturbable countenance  which  men,  under  the  stress 
of  emotion,  assume  in  the  presence  of  each  other — 
an  assumption  which  rarely  fails  to  convince  the 
male  judgment,  and  which  has  never  yet  wholly  de- 
ceived a  woman. 

As  they  approached  their  destination,  Warre 
frowned.  "  I  must  get  another  coachman,"  he  said. 
"  Walton  is  too  hard  on  the  horses.  He  drives  them 
at  a  frantic  pace.     Look  at  them  now  !  " 

"  I  don't  see  much  the  matter  with  'em  !  "  replied 
Wickenham. 

Sarah  Dane  was  already  in  the  church.     She  sat 


AND    LORD    WICKE.XHAM.  m 

near  a  young  girl  with  black  crape  roses  in  her  hat, 
who  had  wandered  into  the  building  out  of  curiosity. 
Two  elderly  men,  who  were  fellow-clerks  with  Sir 
Hugh  at  the  Bank,  were  also  present.  When  they 
were  not  staring  at  the  stained-glass  windows  within 
their  sight,  which  were  designed  in  memory  of  two 
Waterloo  heroes  and  a  Lord  Mayor,  they  winked  at 
each  other.  Lady  Delaware  was  alone  in  a  corner, 
wiping  her  eyes  with  a  plain  pocket-handkerchief, 
whilst  a  finer  one,  edged  with  old  point  lace,  reposed 
on  the  ledge  by  her  pra^-er-book,  and  under  her  red 
glass  scent-bottle. 

Warre  and  his  friend  walked  down  the  aisle,  and 
took  their  place  at  the  choir  rails,  where,  with  their 
gaze  fixed  on  the  door,  they  waited  without  impa- 
tience or  anxiety  for  the  bride. 

"  Here  she  is  !  "  said  Wickenham,  quietly. 

Warre  could  not  look,  but  turned  towards  the 
altar.  The  gold  cross  was  bright ;  the  flowers  in  the 
vases  by  its  side  seemed  to  be  lilies.  How  could  one 
mount  such  shining  steps,  or  walk  on  such  a  polished 
floor?  It  was  absurd.  There  was  a  church  in  Italy 
where  he  harl  always  intended  to  be  married,  but  it 
was  not  at  all  like  this.  He  remembered  the  day 
when  he  saw  it.  Allcgra  was  with  him — an  orange 
light  fell  on  the  ancient  pillars  till  they  glistened  like 
some  frost-boimd  forest  of  trees  in  a  winter's  sunset; 
it  was  not  at  all  like  this.     The  organist  played  ten 


112  THE    GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

bars  of  the  Wedding  March,  but  Lady  Delaware 
bcsfircd  him  to  cease,  on  account  of  her  nerves. 

When  the  ceremony  was  over,  they  all  went 
into  the  vestry.  The  elderly  men  made  themselves 
agreeable  to  the  bride :  Sarah  Dane  held  her  skirt 
and  wept.  Lady  Delaware  showed  by  her  expres- 
sion that  she  considered  Anne  had  thrown  herself 
away.  Sir  Hugh  fell  into  a  benedictory  mood,  and, 
mistaking  the  Registrar  for  one  of  Warre's  obscure 
relatives,  wished  him  a  "  God  bless  you  !  "  He  was 
greatly  annoyed  when  he  discovered  his  error. 
Anne  cried  when  she  si<rned  her  maiden  name  for 
the  last  time. 

Simon  did  not  see  his  wife  until  he  found  him- 
self driving  towards  Portland  Place  with  no  Wick- 
enham — but  Anne — by  his  side.  He  wondered  why 
he  had  ever  thought  her  pretty,  and  what  they  usu- 
ally talked  about  when  they  were  alone,  but  noth- 
ing else  passed  through  his  mind. 

Her  hand  stole  into  his.  "  I  know  ! "  she  said, 
and  smiled  compassionately.  "  I  know !  You  are 
nervous.     Men  hate  these  things." 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  113 


CHAPTER   XI. 

TWO    MEN   AND   TWO   WIVES. 

Anne  wore  a  gown  of  dove-coloured  cloth,  and 
when  she  moved  one  caught  glimpses  of  its  white 
satin  lining.  Her  bonnet  was  made  of  lisse  and 
orange-blossoms,  and  it  rested  lightly  on  her  golden 
hair.     No  veil  concealed  her  brilliantly  pink  cheeks. 

"  I  really  think,"  she  said,  "that  Sarah  might  have 
ordered  a  new  dress  for  my  wedding.  But  it  is  very 
kind  of  her  to  give  us  a  luncheon,  because  Algernon 
Dane  is  dreadfully  mean  about  anything  small.  He 
will  spend  any  amount  of  money  on  a  big  entertain- 
ment, because  they  can  write  about  it  in  the  papers; 
but  when  there  are  only  one  or  two  friends  he  gives 
them  the  claret  he  bought  for  Sarah,  and  the  sort  of 
cntrde  which  is  made  with  lots  of  carrots  and  gravy. 
I  am  looking  forward  to  the  dinners  we  shall  give, 
darling.  We  can  get  all  the  best  men  if  we  only 
have  good  champagne,  and  pretty  women,  and  all  the 
hot  things — hot.  What  is  more  terrible  than  a  hike- 
warm    joint?       Algernon    has    no    ncjtion    (jI     living. 


114  ''^^^   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

Sarah  said  he  did  not  come  to  the  wedding  because 
he  had  a  headache.  He  went  for  a  ride  in  the  Row 
instead.  Have  you  ever  seen  him  on  a  horse !  He 
looks  like  the  last  match  left  in  a  tray — the  one 
which  won't  burn."  An  ecstatic  smile  flitted  over 
her  countenance.  "  Isn't  it  nice  to  think,"  she  said, 
"  that  we  are  at  last  married  for  better  or  worse,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing?  It  is  such  a  pretty  idea,  too, 
and  so  sensible.     I  love  the  Prayer-book." 

She  was  not  prattling  in  her  usual  vein.  She  was 
not  a  woman  of  the  soubrette  type,  and  she  was  too 
grossly  sentimental — too  false  in  tone,  as  it  were — to 
play  the  agreeable  Rattle.  She  rarely  used  slang : 
she  liked  phrases  long  drawn  out,  the  language  of 
the  pulpit,  and  the  romantic  drama. 

"  I  feel  tired,"  she  said  to  her  husband,  and 
seemed  to  droop.  "  I  am  not  so  happy  as  I  thought 
I  should  be  !  " 

Tears  sprang  into  her  eyes.  And  yet  Warre 
could  find  nothing  to  say. 

A  few  moments  later  the  brougham  stopped. 
They  had  reached  Dane's  mansion  in  Portland  Place. 
There  was  a  crowd  at  the  door — a  wondering,  mut- 
tering, ominously  quiet  crowd.  What  did  it  mean? 
Anne  seized  Simon's  arm.  There  were  dark  stains 
on  the  pavement. 

"  Something  is  the  matter,"  she  cried.  "  I  am 
sure  that  something  awful  has  happened." 


AND   LORD   WICKEXHAM. 


115 


There  was  a  man  standing  near  the  carriage,  and 
he  heard  her  words.  "  The  gentleman  was  thrown 
from  his  horse  just  as  he  was  turning  the  corner,"  he 
said. 

Warre  pushed  him  aside,  and  half  carried  Anne 
into  the  house.  She  shook  like  one  stricken  with  the 
palsy:  her  face  was  ashen.  "It  is  Algernon!"  she 
kept  repeating.  "  It  is  Algernon  !  I  cannot  believe 
it.     And  on  my  wedding  morning  !  " 

Algernon  Dane  lay  on  a  rug  in  the  hall.  He  was 
quite  still ;  his  eyes  were  closed :  all  his  servants 
stood  around  him  in  brute  amazement,  watching 
with  curious  horror  the  blood  which  trickled  from 
his  mouth  and  nostrils.  The  housekeeper,  who  had 
been  his  mother's  nurse,  was  wildly  chafing  his  life- 
less hands,  sobbing  out  the  pet  names  of  his  infancy, 
kissing  the  wounds  on  his  forehead. 

"  Take  me  away  !  take  me  away  !  "  screamed 
Anne.  "  Is  he  dead  ?  is  he  dead  ?  Take  me  away  ! 
Don't  let  me  see  him  !  don't  let  me  look  at  him  ! 
Take  me  away!"  She  rushed  blindly  from  side  to 
side,  and,  in  her  impotent  terror,  beat  the  walls  with 
her  outstretched  arms. 

"  He  will  kill  me,"  she  screamed.  "  You  don't  un- 
derstand. He  will  kill  me.  He  will  say  that  it  was 
all  my  fault.  You  do  not  know  him  as  I  do.  Don't 
let  nic  sc-c  him  !  " 

IJut  Warre  did  not   hear  her.     The  sigiit  of  the 


1  i6  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

injured  man  roused  him  from  the  trance  which  had 
held  his  soul  for  so  many  days.  The  awakening  was 
so  swift,  so  complete,  so  painful  that  it  seemed  like 
the  tearing  away,  by  a  strong  hand,  of  some  terrible 
blight  which  had  overgrown  his  brain.  He  remained 
by  Dane,  who  never  recovered  consciousness,  and 
who  died  at  last  in  Sarah's  arms.  She  supported 
him  tenderly  and  lost  all  recollection  of  his  unkind- 
ness,  his  brutality,  his  insulting  neglect.  She  bowed 
herself  over  his  dead  and  mangled  body,  and  wept 
the  bitterest  tears  of  her  sad  life.  She  fancied  it 
might  have  been  different ;  that  she  had  been  to 
blame ;  that  she  had  too  often  shown  impatience. 
She  had  judged  him  too  harshly.  She  and  the  old 
housekeeper  clung  to  each  other  and  murmured  their 
fond  account  of  his  many  virtues. 

Anne  had  been  taken  to  one  of  the  ante-rooms, 
where,  losing  all  courage,  she  threw  herself  on  the 
ground,  rending  her  hair,  tearing  her  cheeks,  moan- 
ing, wailing,  crying.  When  Warre  came  she  grew 
more  tranquil,  her  violence  ceased.  They  left  them 
alone  together. 

"  Look  at  me  ! "  she  said,  lifting  her  disfigured 
face;  "look  at  me!  Take  me  once  more!  Kiss  me 
once  more  .  .  .  and  then  ...  I  will  tell  you  .  .  ." 

She  fell  on  his  neck  and  sobbed.  "  Would  you  say 
I  was  honest ;  would  you  say  I  was  good,  pure,  faith- 
ful, all  that  even  a  bad  man  wishes  a  woman  to  be?" 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  117 

"  Dearest,  how  can  you  ask?" 

Anne  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth  as 
though  she  would  wipe  the  words  from  her  lips  even 
as  she  uttered  them  :  "  I  was  Dane's  mistress.  Dane 
was  my  lover." 

"Never!"  said  Warre.  "I  will  never  believe  it. 
You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying !  " 

"  For  a  whole  year,"  said  Anne,  "  for  a  whole 
year  .  .  .  and  for  money.  Money  !  money  !  money  ! 
that  was  all  1  wanted !     Money  !  " 

"  Never  !  "  repeated  Warre.  "  I  say,  this  never 
was.  It  is  a  lie  ...  a  lie.  It  never  was.  You  do 
not  know  what  you  are  saymg." 

"  I  was  Sarah's  friend  .  .  .  she  was  very  kind  to 
me  ...  I  deceived  her.    And  I  have  deceived  you." 

Warre  grasped  her  wrist.  "  Anne,"  he  said, 
"  this  sounds  too  much  like  life.  If  it  pleases  you  to 
act  these  parts  ...  to  make  these  hideous  jokes 
...  at  such  a  time  .  .  .  keep  them  unsaid.  This  is 
too  much  like  life.     I  cannot  bear  it." 

She  looked  at  him  stupidly,  with  eyes  which  did 
not  see.  "  It  began,"  she  said,  "  when  I  went  to  the 
Riviera  with  them  last  March.  He  gave  me  a  fifty- 
pound  note  for  my  birthday,  and  told  me  not  to  tell 
anyone  .  .  .  that  only  dishonourable  women  told 
other  women  what  men  gave  to  them — what  men 
said  to  them.  I  did  not  want  to  be  dishonourable 
.  .  .  and  he  was  twenty  years  older  than  I  ...  he 


IlS  inE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

knew  the  world  so  much  better  than  I.  ...  I  sup- 
pose I  was  flattered  ...  he  was  so  rich  ...  so 
many  women  ran  after  him.  He  always  laughed 
when  I  said  anything  about  trying  to  do  right  .  .  . 
it  is  not  nice  to  be  laughed  at.  He  told  me  I  was 
born  for  pleasure,  not  for  edification.  .  .  .  And  he 
had  so  much  common  sense  !  I  did  not  think  I 
should  ever  get  a  husband.  There  did  not  seem  to 
be  any  man  who  was  so  rich  that  he  could  afford  to 
marry  a  poor  girl !  I  was  so  poor  ...  I  saw 
nothing  ahead  ...  I  did  all  he  asked.  He  never 
treated  me  badly.  He  was  generous.  He  loved  me 
in  his  way  !  I  suppose  I  have  been  very  wicked 
.  .  .  and  yet  ...  I  am  the  only  one  who  must 
suffer!" 

Warre  remained  motionless. 

"  I  have  not  injured  anyone,"  she  continued. 
"  Sarah  did  not  love  him.  She  would  not  grieve 
very  much  if  she  knew — exxept  on  my  account.  She 
would  be  disappointed  in  me  .  .  .  she  is  very  fond 
of  me.  ...  As  I  said,  Dane  cared  for  me  his  way, 
so  I  suppose  I  made  him  happy.  As  for  me,  I  can 
deal  with  myself.     But  you  .  .  ." 

"  I,  too,"  said  Simon.  "  I,  too,  can  deal  with  my- 
self. You  said  you  were  the  only  one  who  must  suf- 
fer .  .  .  the  only  one.  You  have  not  spoilt  any  life 
but  your  own  !     Think  of  that!  " 

She  crept  towards  him  on  her  knees,  and,  with 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  ng 

tears  streaming  down  her  face,  leant  her  head  against 
his  arm. 

"Forgive  me!"  she  sobbed,  "forgive  me!  If 
you  do  not  forgive  me,  I  shall  kill  myself.  I  don't 
deserve  to  live.  Yet  it  was  not  my  fault :  he  had  a 
bad  influence  over  me.  And  I  am  not  cold  like  you  : 
I  am  much  more  affectionate  ...  I  am  more  easily 
persuaded  !  Do  you  want  me  to  go  away  from  you 
for  ever  .  .  .  never  to  see  you  again  ?  O,  say  any- 
thing but  that.  You  are  my  life — the  very  air  I 
breathe — I  cannot  live  without  you !  Since  I  have 
known  you  I  have  changed.  And  I  cannot  live  with- 
out you  !  I  cannot  live  without  you  !  I  love  you  ! 
I  love  you !  Do  not  send  me  away.  Let  me  be 
your  drudge,  your  servant,  your  slave,  only  let  me 
be  near  you  I  I  will  make  you  happy.  Let  me 
try!  give  me  one  chance.  O,  Simon,  it  was  his 
fault.  And  I  did  not  deceive  you  altogether:  I 
said  there  was  a  man — like  Algernon  Dane — who 
wanted  to  marry  me.  Don't  you  remember?  It 
wasn't  possible  to  tell  the  whole  truth  :  I  could  not 
betray  him  !  A  great  many  girls  would  not  have 
been  so  candid.  But  I  am  naturally  frank  :  I  hate 
falsehoods.  I  need  not  have  told  you  a  word. 
But  when  I  saw  him  dead  ...  I  wanted  you  to 
know  .  .  .  something  made  me  speak.  .  .  .  ^'ou  need 
not  be  so  hard  on  me.  You  yourself  told  nic  that 
you    were   once    in    love    with    some    woman  ...   I 


IJO  THE   GODS.  SOME    MORTALS, 

never  reproached  you.  T  don't  suppose  she  was  a 
saint." 

A  terrible  expression  of  anguish,  of  despair,  came 
into  his  face:  she  shrank  away  in  fear.  "I  forbid 
you,"  he  said,  "  I  forbid  you  to  speak  of  her ! " 

"Do  you  despise  me?"  asked  Anne,  crouching 
lower  at  his  feet. 

He  drew  a  long  sigh.  "  Come  !  "  he  said,  at  last. 
"  Come !  we  must  leave  this  house." 

Anne  watched  him  through  her  fingers.  Was 
she  not  suffering  a  great  deal  of  agony  and  remorse 
for  nothing?  He  did  not  seem  so  angry.  He  did 
not  seem  to  mind.  If  she  had  made  such  a  confes- 
sion to  Dane,  he  would  have  struck  her,  abused  her 
shamefully,  called  her  vile  names.  Simon  was  rather 
a  fool. 

"  Say  something  kind  to  me,"  she  whimpered. 
"  Say  you  forgive  me!     Kiss  me." 

"  Come  !  "  said  Warre,  again.  "  Come  !  we  must 
leave  this  house." 

"  I  don't  want  to  pass  /itm  .  .  .  again  !  "  said 
Anne. 

She  began  to  twist  up  her  hair.  Then  she  looked 
in  the  glass.  "  I  look  awful !  "  she  exclaimed,  and 
began  to  sob  in  self-pity. 

"  Come  !  "  said  Warre,  again. 

As  they  passed  through  the  hall,  they  only  saw 
the  scullery-maid  on  her  knees  by  a  pail  of  water — 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  121 

only  heard  the  swish  of  her  scrubbing-brush  on  the 
marble  floor.  Dane's  body  had  been  taken  to  his 
bedroom.  The  little  scullery-maid,  with  a  white 
face  and  strong  red  arms,  never  ceased  from  her 
work,  but  continued  the  task  of  effacement.  One  of 
the  footmen,  not  observing  Anne  and  Warre,  called 
to  her  from  the  staircase  : 

"  Chemicals    is    the    only    thing    for   that   job ! " 
said  he. 


THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 


CHAPTER   XII.  . 

DISILLUSION. 

Warre  and  his  wife  were  to  have  gone  to  Lord 
Wickenham's  villa  at  Wey borough  to  spend  that 
perfect  week  which  Heaven  is  said  to  lend  the 
newly-married.  But  Simon,  on  leaving  Portland 
Place,  ordered  his  coachman  to  drive  back  to  Gros- 
venor  Street.  Anne  thought  him  inconsiderate  of 
her  feelings.  Surely  she  needed  change  of  scene  and 
fresh  air  after  the  terrible  hours  she  had  spent  that 
day. 

"  I  have  always  heard  of  the  beautiful  garden  at 
Weyborough,"  she  said.  "  I  should  like  to  see  the 
famous  apple  orchard.  I  suppose  you  will  go  there 
to-morrow  ?" 

"  Why?"  asked  her  husband. 

"  We  must  have  a  honeymoon,"  she  replied. 
"What  would  people  say  if  we  remained  in  London? 
And  Mamma  would  be  indignant.  She  has  all  the 
old-fashioned  ideas  of  etiquette.  To  go  straight  to 
Grosvenor  Street !     You  are  not  nice  to  me.     I  do 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  1 23 

not  want  to  be  disagreeable,  and  I  am  sorry  if  you 
are  vexed  ;  but  I  must  say  that  you  are  not  nice  to 
me !  You  have  been  very  cold  and  very  strange  all 
day.  Everyone,  I  am  sure,  must  have  remarked  it. 
Your  married  manner  is  not  kind  !  " 

It  is  only  the  cowardly  and  effeminate  who  are 
harsh  towards  women,  who  speak  lightly  of  them, 
who  affect  a  contempt  for  them,  and  treat  them  with 
contumely.  Warre  was  at  least  heroic  in  one  re- 
spect— he  was,  if  anything,  too  lenient  to  the  w^eak 
and  fair,  nay,  even  to  the  weak  no  longer,  and  per- 
haps, never  fair.  It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  be 
severe  with  women  :  theirs  was  the  harder  part  in 
the  drama ;  theirs,  the  greater  suffering ;  theirs,  the 
heaviest  punishment ;  theirs,  the  feebler  frame. 
Anne's  reproach  cut  him  to  the  soul. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said  ;  "  God  knows  I  do  not 
mean  to  be  unkind." 

She  threw  herself  back  in  the  brougham  and  gave 
a  sobbing  sigh.  She  felt  the  satisfaction  which  comes 
of  having  been  surprised  into  generous  conduct,  and 
she  was  even  prepared  to  undergo  a  little  sentimental 
suffering  for  her  act  of  Quixotry.  After  all,  she  had 
confessed  her  fault;  she  had  been  foolishly  honest ; 
she  had  no  secret  now  to  conceal  from  Warre  ;  no 
dread  hung  before  her  eyes.  The  future  looked 
comfortable;  the  dinner-parties  and  tiie  interesting 
people  could   still  be   thought  of.      She    had    never 


124  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

claimed  to  be  sinless,  but  if — from  a  sense  of  honour 
— she  had  concealed  her  intimacy  with  Sarah's  hus- 
band, on  one  point,  at  least,  she  had  not  deceived 
Simon.  She  was — when  the  worst  was  said  and  the 
worst  was  done — a  beautiful  woman.  A  glance  at 
the  female  occupants  of  every  passing  carriage  was 
more  than  enough  to  remind  her  of  this  saving  grace. 
No  man  in  London  had  a  prettier  wife !  And  then 
she  was  a  good  companion ;  she  had  superb  health 
and  excellent  spirits.  Other  girls  could  talk  on  more 
intellectual  subjects,  but  not  one  of  those  amusing 
chatterboxes  had  her  perfect  mouth,  her  dazzling 
teeth.  Poor  Algernon  had  been  quick  to  appreciate 
her  charms.  Poor  Algernon  !  He  had  enthusiasm, 
he  could  admire  beauty,  he  was  intense.  Simon 
worked  too  hard  to  be  anything  but  dull.  He  was  a 
dear,  but  dull ;  good-looking  in  a  way,  but  too  much 
like  a  stone  Roman  in  a  photograph  of  ruins  !  Anne 
chafed  under  Warre's  indifference  ;  he  was  unnatural. 
Why  did  he  not  ask  a  few  sympathetic  questions 
about  Dane  ?  He  robbed  confession  of  its  legitimate 
pleasure,  its  highest  recompense — the  delight  of 
stimulating  curiosity  and  exciting  interest — of  ap- 
pearing far  more  wonderful  than  any  book.  When  an 
unpleasant  truth  has  once  been  admitted,  it  often  be- 
comes not  only  the  easiest,  but  the  most  enticing  topic 
of  conversation.  Now  that  Warre  knew  the  crude 
facts  of  Anne's  story,  she  longed  to  represent  it  in 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  125 

picturesque  language,  with  all  the  romantic  machin- 
ery of  motives,  remorse,  and  Divine  intervention, 
against  a  background  of  ashen  poverty.  The  weak 
mind  is  never  weary  of  recounting  its  failures.  An 
indolent  spirit,  which  has  once  been  stirred  to  the 
activity  of  transgressing  in  deed,  is  never  too  languid 
to  tell  the  history  of  its  one  lapse  into  the  unhallowed 
toil  of  human  sin. 

"How  is  poor  Sarah?"  asked  Anne,  timidly; 
"  was  she  terribly  upset  ?  " 

"  She  was  very  quiet,"  said  Warre. 

"  Well,"  said  Anne,  "  she  is  free  at  last !  She  can 
marry  again,  and,  as  she  will  have  all  Dane's  money, 
she  ought  to  get  a  titled  husband.  I  am  sure  she  de- 
serves one.  God  orders  all  things  for  the  best.  If 
Algernon  had  lived  he  would  only  have  grown  more 
desperate,  have  committed  more  sins,  have  heaped 
upon  himself  a  heavier  load  of  iniquity,  and  a  severer 
punishment  hereafter.     It  was  a  merciful  death  !  " 

Warre  listened  in  a  dead  wonder. 

"  He  was  an  extraordinary  man,"  she  added,  "  but 
he  was  deeply  attached  to  mc  Ins  ivay.  I  tried  to 
have  a  good  influence  over  him,  and  I  certainly  kept 
him  away  from  immoral  women.  Some  of  these 
creatures  in  society  are  so  unscrupulous! " 

"  Anne  !  "  Warre  cried  ;  "  Anne  !  " 

She  studied  him  in  surprise.  VV^hy  was  he  so  dis- 
tressed ?  vShc  could  not  understand  him.  And  how 
9 


126  i'HE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

ill  he  looked!  How  much  better  and  more  sensible 
if  he  had  made  a  tremendous  scene  on  the  spot ! 
Was  he  going  to  sulk  and  brood  and  say  "  Aufie"  in 
that  awful  way — for  ever?  What  a  life  !  How  could 
he  expect  her  to  care  for  him  ?  He  was  not  the  only 
man  in  the  world. 

They  crossed  the  threshold  of  their  home  in 
silence.  The  bride  complained  that  she  was  hungry, 
adding  that  she  thought  she  ought  to  force  herself  to 
eat.  Why  be  more  ill  than  necessary  ?  O,  she  was 
so  depressed  !  Simon  ordered  dinner  to  be  served 
at  once,  and  showed  Anne  the  room  which  he  had 
prepared  as  a  surprise  for  her  on  their  return  from 
the  honeymoon.  It  was  furnished  in  olive-wood  and 
old  brocade :  the  style  and  decorations  were  in  the 
early  Italian  manner  and  of  formal  beauty.  Anne 
had  the  modern  taste  for  the  elaborate  and  meretri- 
cious ;  for  that  voluptuousness  of  environment,  which 
supplies  in  substance,  what  the  enervated  men  and 
women  of  this  centurj'  vainly  strive  to  extract  from 
their  fatigued  senses.  She  felt  chilled  by  the  austere 
luxury,  but  she  saw  at  once  that  a  large  sum  of 
money  had  been  spent.  So  she  clapped  her  hands, 
sat  on  all  the  chairs,  looked  long  and  happily  in  each 
mirror,  blushed  smiles  at  the  chaste  Cupids  on  the 
ceiling. 

"And  where  does  this  lead?"  she  said,  opening  a 
door.     "  Darling  !  how  dreary  !  "    Simon  was  at  heart 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  127 

ascetic.  His  bedroom  was  like  a  cell  in  a  seminary  ; 
there  was  a  small  iron  bedstead,  a  table,  and  a  chair 
of  varnished  deal. 

"  When  I  go  to  sleep  and  when  I  wake,"  he  said, 
"  I  like  to  see  plain  things." 

"  How  funny  you  are  !  "  said  Anne.  She  would 
soon  cure  him  of  that  affectation. 

He  went  away  alone  to  his  study,  entered  it  and 
turned  the  key.  For  some  moments  he  paced  the 
floor ;  then  he  sat  down  at  the  table,  with  his  face 
buried  between  his  arms,  suffering  that  agony  of 
chagrin  and  disappointment  which  finds  its  earliest, 
and  perhaps  least  poignant,  expression  in  something 
which  is  more  nearly  physical  than  mental  torment. 
His  eyes  were  parched,  thirsty,  burning  for  the  tears 
he  could  not  shed  ;  the  feverish  hands  he  pressed  to 
his  aching  temples  gave  them  no  ease ;  each  breath 
he  drew  was  like  a  three-edged  knife  ;  each  sigh,  a 
stab.  And  with  all  this  there  was  a  sense  of  sufToca- 
tion,  of  blindness,  of  a  powerlessness  to  move,  of  an 
infinite  power  to  suffer.  There  was  neither  anger 
nor  the  desire  for  vengeance  in  the  passion  which 
convulsed  him,  but  the  feeling  which  is  worse  than 
either,  because  it  is  more  enduring  and  more 
subtle,  because  when  it  has  once  entered  into 
a  heart  it  leaves  its  poison  there  for  ever — 
the  deep  despair  which  is  tiie  counterfeit  of  resig- 
nation. 


,28  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

A  voiceless  cry  beat  on  his  silent  lips  like  the  lash 
of  a  whip. 

"Anne!  Anne!  why  did  you  do  this  thing?  Why 
did  you  deceive  me?" 

The  injustice  of  it  all !  What  wrong  had  he  com- 
mitted to  merit  so  humiliating,  so  cruel  a  disillusion  ? 
He  had  worked  hard  and  faithfully  all  his  life ;  the 
home  he  was  now  able  to  afford  had  been  gained  by 
many  long  and  toilsome  hours — toil,  too,  whilst  others 
around  him,  of  his  own  rank,  played  and  fooled  and 
trifled  ;  had  as  much — much  more  than  he — and  as  a 
matter  of  course,  a  birthright.  Did  he  not  work  now 
as  hard? — yes.  Harder  than  ever.  Surely  he  de- 
served a  little  happiness ;  he  did  not  ask  for  much, 
nor  did  he  hope  for  a  long  continuance  of  it,  but  he 
was  onl}'  human.  This  new  misery  was  beyond  his 
strength.  He  could  not  bear  it;  could  not,  could 
not !  Every  small  and  great  grievance,  which,  from 
his  childhood  to  that  latest  day,  had  dismayed  his 
spirit,  fell  on  him  with  all  their  accumulated  rancour. 
Pleasures  are  so  much  more  difficult  to  remember 
than  woes,  and,  while  hours  of  happiness  are  dearer 
in  their  passage  than  in  their  recollection,  hardship 
and  suffering  are  resented  more  fiercely  when  they 
are  overcome  and  outlived  than  at  the  time  when  the 
very  necessity  for  their  endurance  produces  a  certain 
stupor.  Simon  felt  again  the  pain  of  his  frost-bitten 
hands  and  feet  during  those  weary  tramps  to  and  fro 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  129 

West  Kensington  and  the  College ;  he  remembered 
how  he  used  to  long  for  the  warmth  of  the  train, 
because  his  mother  would  only  have  one  fire,  and 
that  in  her  own  bedroom.  He  remembered  the 
black,  bleak  mornings  when  he  rose  at  a  quarter  to 
five,  broke  the  ice  in  the  tank  for  his  bath,  dressed  in 
the  dark  and  sat,  in  a  worn-out  overcoat,  writing 
Greek  prose  by  the  light  of  one  tallow  candle  and  an 
incomplete  second-hand  dictionary.  He  tasted  again 
his  dinners  of  thin  mutton  and  stewed  rhubarb ;  his 
luncheons  off  railway  milk  and  halfpenny  buns. 
Magnificent  sustenance  for  an  intellect  doomed  to 
travail  for  some  ten  hours  a  day  !  Would  a  brain  so 
nourished  be  turned  by  a  little  love — a  few  earthly 
pleasures?     It  was  hard  I  it  was  cruel !  it  was  unfair! 

A  boy  in  the  street  passed  under  the  window,  and 
shouted,  in  strident  tones,  an  obscene  song. 

"Here  is  the  truth  at  last!"  thought  Simon. 
"  He  has  defined  life  and  love  in  four  filthy,  un- 
speakable lines !  "  As  a  rule  he  prescribed  drugs  and 
tonics  for  the  cynical,  merely  to  prove  that  a  fore- 
done  soul  is  not  to  be  exalted  by  quinine.  But  now 
he  was  not  in  the  vein  to  offer  mocking  compliments 
to  Materialism.  There  is  a  time  when  the  possible 
Immortal  in  us  will  be  no  longer  denied,  no  longer 
slighted,  no  longer  called  a  stomach — to  be  calmed 
with  roots  and  extracts,  nourished  on  meats  and  milk. 
Warrc's  heart  was  breaking. 


130  'I'HE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

It  was  not  Anne's  sin  which  he  found  so  hard  to 
forgive  :  it  was  not  for  him  to  sit  in  judgment.  But 
why  had  she  deceived  him  ?  How  could  one  who 
had  so  sinned  look  so  innocent,  show  such  a  childish 
air,  feign  such  an  ignorance  of  evil  ?  O  hypocrite ! 
Had  he  not  seen  her  at  church,  lost  in  angelic  self- 
forgetfulness,  praying  like  some  saint  in  a  picture, 
her  hands  joined  with  the  prettiest  precisiop,  her 
eyes  mirroring  the  celestial  light  she  lived  by  ?  O 
hypocrite!  In  his  youth  he  had  read  deeply  in  the 
Scriptures,  in  Sermons,  in  the  Writings  of  the 
Fathers:  nowhere  had  he  found  such  severity  as 
Anne's — such  biting  wrath  against  the  ungodly  and 
unchaste.  She  could  find  no  pardon  for  sins  of  the 
Flesh.  She  had  made  him  feel  so  miserably  un- 
worthy of  her :  he  had  so  feared  to  contaminate  that 
virginal  holiness.  O  hypocrite  !  First  among  stone- 
throwers  !  She  seemed  to  him  hideous,  repulsive ; 
in  his  sight  all  her  beauty  had  perished :  she  was 
abominable.  A  woman  w^ho  could  assume  chastity 
w'ith  such  convincing  effect  should  have  small  diffi- 
culty in  its  actual  observance.  Her  conduct  was  in- 
excusable; she  sinned — not  from  frailty — but  for 
money.  Had  she  not  owned  this?  And  yet — she 
was  very  susceptible  to  kindness.  Words  she  had 
once  used  came  back  to  him  :  "  IV/iat  Jiave  I  not  done 
for  companionship  ?  "  Perhaps  the  horrible  compact 
with  Dane    had    been  made   from  a   false  notion  of 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  131 

gratitude  on  her  part :  young,  inexperienced  women 
— and  sometimes  those  who  were  neither  young  nor 
inexperienced — were  often  foolishly  polite,  and  suf- 
fered many  scruples  over  the  utterance  of  a  negative. 
They  thought  it  uncivil  to  say  "  No  "  to  a  benefactor. 
He  knew  of  many  such  martyrs  to  delicacy.  They 
had  amused  him — as  one  is  amused  at  the  pranks,  the 
folly,  the  mischievous  gambols  of  ridiculous  pet  ani- 
mals :  he  could  never  treat  their  immorality  seri- 
ously ;  they  would  frisk  hereafter — small,  black  lambs 
among  the  heavenly  host.  They  had  nothing  in 
common  with  the  devil — they  only  suffered  from  an 
incomplete  soul.  But  now  he  had  married  one. 
He  did  not  find  her  so  amusing,  so  artless,  so  innocu- 
ous as  he  had  always  held  other  men's  wives  of  the 
same  calibre  to  be.  He  saw  Anne  as  he  had  met  her 
first  at  Lord  Wickenham's  dinner :  restlessly  beauti- 
ful, eager  for  her  dinner,  eager  for  admiration:  arti- 
ficial in  manner,  singularl}'^  artless  in  so  much  that 
she  said.  Then  at  the  boarding-house — that  dirty, 
vulgar  boarding-house — her  peculiar  manner  with 
Dane  and  the  painful  tears  which  drowned  her  exit: 
the  scene  in  the  little  conservatory — he  still  smelt  the 
damp  mould  round  the  dying  plants,  still  saw  the 
faded  paper  of  the  Japanese  lamps:  still  heard  Anne's 
passionate  sobbing,  her  bitter  lament.  And  then  that 
same  evening,  in  this  very  room  in  which  he  now  was, 
all  that  had  been  said,  all  that  he  himself  had  thought. 


132  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

She  had  sat  where  he  sat  at  present.  With  a  gesture 
of  repugnance  he  stood  up,  pushed  the  chair  far  from 
him,  and  walked  to  tlie  window. 

The  day  had  changed  since  morning,  and  now  at 
sunset  deep  violet  clouds,  melting  into  grey  and  rose, 
edged  with  amber  and  brightest  gold,  were  blown, 
like  the  petals  of  some  strange  fiower,  across  the 
serene  pale  blue  of  the  waning  sky.  It  was  a  tran- 
sient glory,  and,  even  as  Simon  watched,  the  seeming 
petals  were  lost  in  apparent  flames  which  licked  up 
the  horizon  and  consumed  the  sun,  till  by-and-by 
that,  too,  smouldered  under  the  gathering  vague 
and  smoke  of  night. 

"  And  this,"  thought  Warre— "  and  this  is  like 
our  hope — our  love.  A  flower — a  fire,  and,  after 
that,  darkness !  " 

The  injustice  of  it  all !  Was  this  anguish  of 
mind  a  blessing  or  a  reprimand  :  a  life  sentence  or 
the  stern  discipline  of  a  long  but  not  unending  day  ? 
It  was  his  suspense,  his  uncertainty,  it  was  his  igno- 
rance of  the  event  which  made  the  trial  so  weari- 
some and  of  a  bitterness  so  irremediable.  If  he 
might  only  know  why  ?  If  he  could  only  be  sure 
that  it  was  not  wanton  cruelty,  that  he  was  not  the 
sport  of  winds,  the  plaything  of  the  gods,  the  devil's 
mouse.  And  yet  how  wildly  he  had  scampered 
through  this  great  crisis  of  his  life ;  how  wilfully  he 
had  disregarded  the  warnings  of  his  own  reason,  the 


AND    LORD    WICKENHAM.  1 33 

advice  of  his  friend.  How  could  he  explain  his  own 
conduct?  He  was  a  stranger  to  himself.  He  re- 
membered the  saying  of  St.  Paul : 

"  For  the  good  that  I  xvould  I  do  not :  hut  the  evil 
which  I  ivould  not,  that  I  do.  Now,  if  I  do  that  I 
would  not,  it  is  no  more  I  that  do  it,  but  sin  that  dwell- 
eth  in  me.     For  I  delight  in  the  law  of  God.'" 

Simon  had  heard  many  homilies  on  that  fre- 
quented  theme,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he 
owned  the  benefit  of  listening  patiently  to  a  drowsy 
sermon.  The  sober  sense  and  profound  philosophy 
of  the  Church  stuck  fast.  Warre  had  no  dogmatic 
religion,  but  he  had  an  instinctive  and  natural  piety, 
which,  though  it  did  not  show  in  his  outward  con- 
duct or  his  ordinary  conversation,  nevertheless  col- 
oured his  thoughts  and  gave  even  his  most  rebel- 
lious moments  that  redeeming  sweetness  which 
makes  all  the  difference  between  a  vicious  man  and  a 
man  with  many  faults.  He  could  not  take  refuge  in 
the  comfortable  doctrine  which  teaches  that  one 
may  be  possessed  of  a  demon  for  a  night — or  even 
for  a  few  years— and  still  be  held  irresponsible  for 
the  fiend's  vagaries.  He  sought  for  the  ruling  de- 
sire among  the  crowd  (A  insurgent  impulses  which 
had  swayed  his  moral  being  for  the  past  six  weeks. 
The  admiration  he  had  felt  for  Anne's  beauty  had 
died  into  a  mere  frigid  acknowledgment  before  they 
had  been  engaged  two  days.     He  had  never  loved 


134  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

her;  nor  liad  he  ever  pretended  to  a  deeper  feeling 
than  fondness.  He  had  married  her  because  he  had 
believed  so  implicitly  in  her  essential  goodness — her 
piety — both  of  which  she  had  kept  in  the  midst  of 
temptation — without  guardians,  without  love,  with- 
out encouragement.  And  he  was  not  easily  de- 
ceived. He  did  not  as  a  rule  ask  more  of  existence 
than  it  could  give,  or  demand  more  from  the  nature 
of  any  other  being  than  he  found  it  was  possible  to 
bestow  out  of  his  own.  He  was  not  easily  deceived. 
Once  more  and  yet  again  he  lived  through  every 
episode,  every  moment  of  his  acquaintance  with 
Anne.  The  wretched  woman  did  not  appear  so  false 
as — seen  through  the  first  blinding  hurricane  of  dis- 
appointment— she  had  seemed.  Cowardice  and  love 
of  ease  had  been  her  undoing ;  hers  was  not  the  low 
cunning  of  a  born  adventuress,  nor  had  she  the  self- 
control,  the  coldness,  of  an  intentional  traitor.  She 
acted  and  spoke  from  her  heart ;  unhappily,  the 
heart  was  corrupt.  But  surely  her  remorse  at  least 
had  been  real,  and  the  love  she  felt  for  himself  was, 
whether  hysterical,  inconsequent,  selfish,  evanescent, 
or  worthless,  real.  For  that  moment  at  any  rate,  he 
was  spared  the  pang  of  doubting  the  one  poor  gift 
of  her  affection.  He  would  not — dared  not  doubt  it. 
She  cared  for  him,  and  he  had  married  her.  That 
was  not  a  base — not  a  wholly  reprehensible  motive. 
Perhaps  there  should  have  been  more  genuine  devo- 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM. 


135 


tion  on  his  own  side.  Ah,  what  was  that  other 
thought  which  he  had  swept  from  the  argument — 
altogether  out  of  the  reckoning  ?  He  had  not  been 
true  to  himself — not  true  to  AUegra.  Away  !  away  ! 
all  sophistry,  all  talk  of  settling  down,  of  finding  a 
convenient  mother  for  one's  unborn,  but  possible, 
family.  He  had  abandoned  hope  of  Allegra  very 
soon:  faint  heart!  His  pride  had  been  too  easily 
wounded,  his  vanity  too  great ;  he  had  found  it  too 
hard  to  wait  and  be  patient.  He  had  expected  to 
win  a  treasure  for  less  than  the  asking — by  a  few 
kind  remarks  and  a  present.  O  fool !  She  was  a 
shy  little  girl,  not  versed  in  the  arts  of  courtship. 
He  could  remember — now  it  was  too  late — the  many 
pretty  signs  she  had  given  of  a  friendliness  more 
than  common.  There  is  a  tone  of  the  voice,  an  un- 
uttered  and  unutterable  tenderness  in  the  accent  of 
true  love,  which  no  art  can  simulate  and  no  dis- 
cretion disguise.  There  is  a  glance  which,  even  un- 
der the  ice  of  an  assumed  indifference,  or  through 
the  fiery  tempest  of  quick  anger,  still  wears  the  star 
of  spring-time.  There  is  a  touch  which  is  never  so 
swift,  so  rough,  so  timid,  or  so  unconsidered,  but  it 
manifests  devotion.  False  affection  may  capture  our 
vanity,  but  it  never  deceives  our  instinct;  we  may 
wish  to  be  cared  for,  and,  in  the  weakness  of  that 
strong  desire,  accept  the  protestation  wliicii  our  hap- 
piness or  our  self-esteem  would  believe  in  ;  but  who 


136  IIIK   GODS,  SOxME   MORTALS, 

ever  took,  with  perfect  honesty,  venal,  assumed,  or 
base  love  for  other  than  it  was?  Wickenham's 
words  came  back  to  him  ;  the  words  of  Wickenham, 
the  frank,  unequivocal  man  of  the  world  and  the 
flesh,  the  Pagan  of  our  days.  "  If  I  had  an  ideal 
like  yours,  I  should  either  stick  to  it  or  drop  it  alto- 
gether. If  you  consider  it  impossible,  you  are  a  fool 
to  give  it  a  second  thought,  and  if  it  is  possible,  you 
are  a  coward  if  you  accept  anything  less !  "  He  had 
been  a  coward,  had  accepted  the  lesser  thing.  And 
found  it  the  lesser,  indeed  ! 

His  punishment  was  just! 

"  My  God  !  "  cried  the  unhappy  young  man.  "  I 
have  accepted  the  laws  of  Nature  and  I  have  taught 
the  laws  of  science,  but  yours  is  the  only  law  I  love. 
I  have  disobeyed  it  more  than  once.  I  have  tried  to 
forget  it  often.  I  have  been  unfaithful,  and  I  am  al- 
together a  poor  creature.  But  I  worship  what  is 
good,  and  I  hate  what  is  vile :  I  have  found  no  pleas- 
ure in  disloyalty  :  I  am  wretched  :  my  heart  is  like  a 
grave-stone :  disappointment  is  the  name  of  every 
fulfilled  desire.  Oh,  where  is  peace  to  be  found  ? 
We  sin  because  we  wish  to  be  happy  ;  the  most  dan- 
gerous temptations  are  those  which  promise  heavenly 
happiness.  I  have  ti'ied  all  things  except  obedience. 
I  am  sorry  !     I  am  sorry  !  " 

But  if  he  could  not  escape  the  penalty  of  his 
wrong-doing,  the  life-long   infelicity,  the  undermin- 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


137 


ing  regret,  the  trembling  endurance  of  a  long-con- 
tinuing present,  the  fearful  expectation  of  a  tardy 
future  infinitely  worse — promising  nothing,  threaten- 
ing all  things,  save  those  to  be  prepared  for  and  fore- 
stalled— if  he  could  not  escape  this,  he  was  free  at 
least  from  the  last  shame,  the  one  ineffaceable  igno- 
miny, the  one  irreparable  disgrace.  The  woman  who 
had  the  right  to  bear  his  name  should  never  be  his 
wife.  He  did  not  love  her:  one  may  love  a  sinner, 
an  unfortunate,  even  the  reckless  sensualist,  but  not 
a  hypocrite — not  a  being  who  could  go  to  the  altar 
with  a  lie  on  her  face,  on  her  lips,  in  her  heart :  act- 
ing the  pure,  young  bride.  Hypocrisy  rises  from  a 
frozen  hell ;  it  blasts,  it  cuts  our  shivering  charity : 
it  beats  and  pinches  like  quick-fingered  sleet,  it  enters 
with  arrowy  dart  into  our  ice-boimd  kindness.  And 
what  was  Anne's  passion  for  him  ?  Was  it  to  be  so 
much  as  named  ?  What  union,  then,  was  possible  be- 
tween them  ?  Where  was  the  God  who  could  bless 
it?  Where  was  the  God  who  could  call  it  a  sacra- 
ment? an  indissoluble  bond? 

He  knelt  d(nvn  by  the  window,  and,  although  his 
face  was  old  from  grief,  there  was  that  youth  in  his 
expression  which  neither  years  nor  sorrow  can  rust 
or  spoil.     He  wept,  but  without  tears. 

"  AUcgra,"  he  whispered,  "  1  iiavc  lost  you  beyond 
the  shadow  of  a  hope  of  a  possil)iHty.  But  you  arc 
mine  and  I  am  yours  :  you  arc  my  beloved  and  my 


138  1  HK   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

wife  !  The  life  divides  us  now,  and  some  day  death 
must  take  one  of  us  away  :  but  I  will  always  love 
you,  although  I  may  never  tell  you  so — although  you 
can  never  know  how  dearly.  And  I  will  be  faithful. 
I  will  not  be  faithless.  Oh,  my  beloved,  I  will  not 
be  faithless ! " 

Was  that  a  knock  at  the  door?  He  listened.  It 
was  like  an  audible  shivering  of  the  wood  ;  the  tap 
of  a  woman's  light  fingers — fingers  skilled  in  playing 
a  musical  instrument. 

"  I  am  here,"  said  Simon. 

"  But  you  have  locked  the  door,"  replied  Anne. 

He  turned  back  the  key. 

She  entered,  bearing  his  small  reading-lamp  in 
one  hand  and  holding  up  her  train  of  heavy  white 
satin  with  the  other.  The  efTect  was  theatrical,  and 
she  had  intended  it  to  be  so ;  the  green  shade  gave 
an  unearthly  tint  to  her  face,  lent  it  the  tender  melan- 
choly she  was  not  only  too  tired  then — but  unable  at 
any  time — to  feel.  But  she  had  rare  bodily  beauty  ; 
rare  perfection  of  form  and  colouring ;  she  was  the 
King's  daughter  among  fair  women;  her  feet  should 
have  been  clothed  with  the  stars  ;  her  raiment  woven 
from  the  rainbow  ;  a  diadem  of  suns  would  not  have 
been  too  splendid  for  her  golden  hair.  Simon  owned 
this. 

She  placed  the  lamp  on  the  table.  "  I  would  not 
let  the  man  bring  it,"  she  said,  "  I  want  to  wait  on 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


139 


you  myself.  I  almost  wish  you  had  no  servants." 
Three  of  his  unnecessary  domestics,  however,  had 
assisted  at  her  toilette.  She  had  thought  it  wise  to 
let  them  know  at  once  that  she  was  accustomed  to 
every  attention ;  that  they  would  have  to  look  well 
to  their  business.  Her  gown  was  cut  low,  her  neck 
and  bodice  glittered  with  wedding-presents,  one  of 
them,  a  diamond  cross  given  by  Lord  Wickenham  ; 
the  other,  an  emerald  moon,  given  by  Dane.  Warre's 
eye  fell  on  the  trinket  at  once. 

"  Take  that  off!  "  he  said,  sternly. 

Anne  coloured,  and  held  her  hand  over  the  orna- 
ment with  a  protective  gesture. 

"  It  was  from  Sarah  as  well,"  she  faltered  :  "  it 
was  from  both  of  them.  I  can  shew  you  the  card  if 
you  don't  believe  me  !  " 

"  Take  it  off!  "  repeated  Simon. 

"  But  it  is  sewn  on,"  she  said,  "  it  is  stitched  to 
my  dress.     I  never  trust  pins." 

Warre  took  out  his  penknife.  "  What  are  you 
going  to  do  ?  "  cried  Anne.  "  You  will  cut  the  lace ! 
You  will  hurt  me  !  " 

"  You  kn(^w  I  will  not  hurt  you,"  he  said, 
quietly. 

lie  drew  her  towards  the  lamp,  as  though  she 
had  been  a  child,  and,  with  a  lii^lit  touch,  severed 
each  minute  thread  which  houiul  the  brooch  to 
her  garment.     She  stirred  impatiently,  in  the  hope 


l^O  1IIE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

that  he  would  either  prick  her  or  cut  the  satin  ; 
but  his  composure  was  marvellous,  his  dexterity 
supreme.  In  less  than  two  seconds — although  it 
seemed  to  Anne  much  longer — he  had  disattached 
the  bauble  moon  and  thrown  it,  with  cold  contempt, 
out  of  the  window, 

"  Don't  cry  !  "  he  said.  "  I  will  give  you  some- 
thing else." 

"  Every  time  I  see  Sarah  she  will  wonder  why  I 
do  not  wear  it.  How  awkward  it  will  be  !  But 
when  you  buy  the  new  one  let  me  choose  it  myself. 
I  am  sick  of  emeralds  :  I  should  like  a  black  pearl." 
Her  good  humour  was  restored  :  she  would  rather 
have  had  the  emeralds  as  well  as  the  pearls,  but  it 
was  not  a  bad  bargain.  !She  put  one  hand  on  each 
of  his  shoulders  and  studied  his  haggard  face  with 
unfeigned  concern.  It  would  not  take  much  worry, 
she  thought,  to  make  him  a  really  plain  man:  he  was 
always  striking,  distinguished,  classic,  but  she  did 
not  want  to  see  him  lined  and  seamed  by  despairful 
meditation  :  that  sort  of  thing  did  not  attract  her. 
And  she  honestly  did  not  wish  to  fall  in  love  with 
anyone  else  :  as  Dane  had  so  often  and  so  wisely 
said,  why  chop  and  change  ? 

"  Darling,"  she  said,  with  all  the  solicitude  of  a 
devoted  wife,  "  my  poor  darling  !  You  look  tired  to 
death.  You  need  your  dinner.  And  I  am  afraid 
you  do  not  drink  Burgundy  !     I  must  take  care  of 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  141 

you,  precious  I  "  She  rubbed  her  soft  cheeks  against 
his  ;  pressed  languid  kisses  near  his  lips  :  she  thought 
his  coldness  arose  from  fatigue,  from  exhaustion,  and 
forgave  it  readily.  Had  she  not  partaken  of  wine 
and  sweet  cake  and  grapes,  she,  too,  might  have  felt 
despondent  .  .  .  she,  too,  would  have  been  irrespon- 
sive. The  only  affection  she  understood  was  that 
which  rested  on  a  tangible  foundation :  she  liked 
the  emphatic  sanity  of  an  after-dinner  passion  :  there 
was  one  code  of  morals  for  Anne  hungry,  and  an- 
other code  for  Anne  well-fed  :  the  scruples  of  Anne 
tired  were  not  the  scruples  of  Anne  after  a  good 
night's  rest.  She  had  sympathy  for  Simon.  Ilcr 
fond  murmuring  continued. 

"Poor,  little,  disagreeable  pet!"  She  pinched 
his  ears,  she  stroked  his  nose,  she  kissed  his  chin. 
Warre's  sense  of  humour  was  the  only  sense  she 
stirred,  but  the  laugh  he  stifled  was  not  merry — it 
was  like  the  grin  which  sometimes  lives  on  the  face 
of  the  dead  who  died  in  torment,  bravely.  He 
feared  to  meet  her  eyes  lest  she  should  see 
his  extreme  loathing  of  her  caress  and  of  her  pres- 
ence. 

The  ordeal  of  his  relationship  with  Anne  and  its 
temptation  was  not  the  conflict  between  her  allure- 
ment and  his  will,  but  that  much  more  difficult  en- 
counter between  a  sensibility  without  strings,  and,  a 

sensibility   too   highly  strung:    between   a   being  of 
10 


1^2  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

smiles  and  cries,  and,  a  being  of  iron  and  blood  and 
tears. 

"  Anne,"  he  said,  "  I  was  not  prepared  to  hear 
what  you  told  me  this  afternoon  !  " 

"  Oh  !  that^'  she  murmured,  and  was  at  a  loss  for 
words. 

"  I  will  never  refer  to  it,"  he  said,  hurriedly  :  "  it 
shall  be  a  sealed  subject  between  us,  but  I  cannot 
forget  it  in  a  moment.  Nothing  can  ever  be  the 
same  to  me  again." 

Anne  flowered  into  a  rosy  pout,  and,  catching  his 
coat-sleeve,  pulled  it  softly  to  and  fro  : 

"  I  said  I  was  sorry  !  I  said  I  was  sorry  !  I  said 
I  was  sorry  !  "  she  repeated  with  each  gentle  move- 
ment. "  I  said  I  was  sorry !  But  you  love  me, 
don't  you  ? " 

Warre  hesitated — not  because  he  lacked  an 
answer — but  because  he  was  so  reluctant  to  wound 
even  her  vanity. 

"  You  love  me,  don't  you  ? "  she  asked  again, 
never  doubting. 

The  sternness  of  his  reply  did  not  betray  the  pain 
he  suffered  in  its  utterance. 

"  No,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  No  I     I  do  not  love  you." 

Anne  showed  the  incredulous  air  of  some  merci- 
ful goddess  with  a  petulant  but  devoted  worshipper, 
and  made  a  mock  effort  to  conceal  an  indulgent 
smile. 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM. 


143 


She  dropped  her  eyelids;  drew  his  arm  more 
closely  to  her  side. 

"  You  vmst  be  very  tired,"  she  said. 

It  seemed  to  Warre  that  Anne's  face  had  caught 
the  infection  of  Dane's  look  ;  her  girlish  countenance 
bore  the  impress  of  his  vice,  like  an  obscene  image 
printed  on  delicate  wax.  The  air  about  her  was  an 
impure  incense,  heavy  with  the  same  noisomely 
sweet  scent  of  civet  which  he  had  noticed  about  the 
head  and  clothing  of  Algernon  Dane. 

"  What  is  the  matter  .'*  "  cried  Anne. 

Simon  drew  back,  and  his  gaze  was  fixed  on  the 
little  sharp  knife  which  glittered.  He  made  two 
attempts  to  speak,  but  could  find  no  voice  ;  then 
he  picked  up  the  knife,  and  slowly — as  though 
it  were  the  task  prescribed  him  for  eternity  — 
closed  it. 

"  Can't  you  see,"  he  said,  under  his  breath,  "  that 
if  you  do  not  leave  me  alone — if  you  do  not  go  away 
— I  shall  kill  you  I  And  it  will  seem  so  right,  so 
just.     You  are  so  evil  a  woman  !  " 

He  did  not  speak  in  any  ecstasy  of  hatred.  He 
was  a  man  who  had  been  driven  too  hard  against 
the  rude  elements  of  reason  ;  his  heart  lay  ship- 
wrecked on  the  barren  soil  by  a  dead  and  bottomless 
sea.  He  saw  no  liglit  ;  llicre  was  no  dav,  and  the 
atmosphere  was  foul  wilh  the  odour  of  grave-things. 

Anne  slunk  away  like  a  courtezan  who  is  at  home 


1^_|^  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

with  Stealth,  her  footsteps  noiseless,  and  insolent, 
low-laughing  courage  in  her  regard. 

It  was  not  within  the  compass  of  her  imagination 
to  even  suspect  the  peril  she  had  escaped,  nor  was  it 
in  the  measure  of  her  nature  to  gauge  the  inevi- 
dent  strength  of  the  man  she  thought  so  destitute  of 
virility. 

When  Warre  went  up  to  his  room  that  night, 
Anne,  who  had  been  crouching  for  two  hours  by  her 
door  to  listen  for  his  footstep,  cried  out : 

"  Simon  !  Simon  !  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

He  entered. 

She  had  thrown  off  her  ivory  satin  gown,  and  it 
seemed  in  the  dim  light  like  a  huge  white  serpent 
coiled  up  upon  the  floor.  Anne  wore  a  muslin 
jacket  fastened  closely  to  the  throat,  and  with  trans- 
parent sleeves.  Her  hair  rolled  in  a  dazzling  torrent 
over  her  shoulders  and  below  her  waist.  Her  petti- 
coat of  shimmering  satin,  festooned  with  lace,  just 
reached  her  naked  ankles.  She  had  thrust  her  bare 
feet  into  a  pair  of  Warre 's  old  slippers.  Her  own 
small  white  ones,  with  their  high  heels  and  pearl- 
embroidered  toes,  were  kicked,  one,  towards  the 
window,  and  the  other,  by  the  wardrobe. 

"  I  could  not  find  my  own  bedroom  slippers,"  she 
said,  angrily.  "  I  was  much  too  tired  to  unpack  and 
I  will  not  trouble  your  servants.  I  found  these  in 
there,"  she   pointed    to   his  room.     "  They  are  too 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


145 


large  and  they  fall  off,  and  they  are  absurd.  I  am 
cold  ;  I  am  miserable  ;  I  am  worn-out.  As  for  my 
dinner,  I  could  not  touch  it.  They  brought  it  here, 
but  I  sent  it  away  untasted.  I  forced  myself  to  swal- 
low some  champagne,  and  I  choked  myself  with  a 
little  chicken.  I  hate  the  housekeeper,  and  these 
maids  who  stare  at  me !  You  can  send  them  away 
to-morrow,  I  will  be  treated  with  proper  respect. 
What  can  they  think  ?  Do  they  know  I  am  your 
wife?  You  will  destroy  my  love  for  you.  I  know 
myself  well,  and  it  is  not  in  me  to  care  for  a  man 
with  a  sulky,  selfish,  brutal  disposition.  I  am  sorry, 
darling,  to  speak  so  plainly,  but  now  we  are  married 
it  is  not  worth  while  to  disguise  our  true  characters 
and  our  real  feelings.  Between  husband  and  Avife 
there  should  be  perfect  sincerity — absolute  confi- 
dence. I  have  just  been  reading  Jeremy  Taylor's 
sermon  on  TJie  Marriage  Ring,  which  poor  Mamma 
put  in  my  dressing-bag.  She  always  said  that  hap- 
piness could  not  be  found  with  a  husband  who  had 
no  deep-rooted  religious  belief.  Her  words  were 
rue. 

"Anne,"  said  Warre,  "  we  have  both  made  a  ter- 
rible mistake.  I  regard  our  marriage  as  a  legal 
contract,  which  does  small  honour  to  cither  of  us  — 
nothing  more.  It  is  for  me  now  to  speak  plainly. 
I  am  sorry  if  I  appear  harsh.  Unt  if  I  niiuccd 
words   n(jw    it    wcjiild    oiiU-   lead  to  worse  and   more 


1^6  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

hideous  trouble.  You  are  not  my  wife — you  never 
will  be  my  wife.  You  have  the  right  to  bear  my 
name " 

She  tittered. 

"  It  is  not  particularly  distinguished,"  she  said. 
"What  did  you  tell  me  your  poor  father  was?  A 
coachman?  a  carpenter?  a  tinker?  a  tailor?  a  can- 
dle-stick maker?  " 

"  He  was  an  honest  man,"  said  Simon.  "  He 
spoke  truth  all  his  days,  and  he  lived  cleanly." 

"  I  have  never  met  anyone  who  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  his  acquaintance,"  replied  Anne,  with  heaving 
breast.  "  I  daresay,  however,  he  was  a  highly  re- 
spectable person.  What  does  it  matter  to  me  what 
he  was  ?  I  did  not  marry  you  for  your  honest 
father,  but  for  your  money  !  "  • 

At  this  last  cruel  taunt,  sudden,  scalding,  uncon- 
trollable tears  broke  through  Warre's  sunken  eyes. 

"  You  shall  have  my  money,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"  I  will  earn  all  I  can.  In  case  anything  should  hap- 
pen to  me,  I  insured  my  life  yesterday.  And  if  I 
merely  fell  ill,  I  have  settled  a  sufficient  sum  on  you 
to  keep  you  at  least  in  comfort." 

But  Anne  had  now  huddled  herself  in  a  chair 
and  was  crying  bitterly.  She  loved  Simon  after  her 
feline  fashion.  The  betrayal  of  her  avarice  was  a 
self-revelation  which,  before  it  penetrated  Warre, 
first  glinted  sharply — not  without  damage — against 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


147 


the  artificial  ideal  she  had  formed  of  her  own  char- 
acter. It  had  pleased  her  to  regard  her  marriage  as 
one  of  pure  and  disinterested  affection.  The  aston- 
ishing power  of  self-deception  which  she  had  inher- 
ited from  Lady  Delaware  had  become,  from  the  cir- 
cumstances of  her  life,  a  malady  of  the  mind.  And 
when  she  caught  glimpses  of  her  true  self  she  suf- 
fered, just  as  those  who  are  afflicted  with  madness 
suffer,  when  the  sound  of  some  long-forgotten  tune 
calls  up  a  painful  and  evasive  half-remembrance  of 
serener  days. 

"  Oh,  I  never  meant  to  say  that,"  sobbed  Anne, 
"  I  never  meant  to  say  that.  Why  did  you  make  me 
lose  my  temper?  I  told  you  1  had  a  bad  one.  This 
day  will  kill  me  !  " 

She  looked  up  to  implore  his  pity,  his  forgive- 
ness, but  he  had  gone. 

"  Simon  !  "  she  called,  "  Simon  !  " 

She  flung  herself  against  his  door ;  listened,  and 
there  was  no  sound  ;  cried  out  his  name  once  more, 
and  there  was  no  answer.  He  was  not  there.  He 
had  returned  to  his  study.  She  knew  that  it  would 
be  useless  to  follow  him.     And  she  was  so  tired. 

For  s(mie  moments  she  stumbled  blindly  to  and 
fro  the  two  rooms;  then  she  picked  up  her  gown  to 
fold  it  away.  T>ut  before  she  reached  the  wardrobe, 
she  let  it  fall  again  on  the  floor.  She  went  to  hcr 
box   and    took   out  a  glove-case  and  a  feather  fan. 


148  THE  GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

She  shook  out  the  fan ;  caressed  the  ostrich  tips  ; 
counted  the  gloves ;  put  them  back.  She  spent  ten 
minutes  looking  for  her  dressing-slippers  of  swans- 
down  and  white  silk,  and  found  them,  at  last,  where 
she  had  thrown  them  without  knowing  it — on  the 
bed.  Then  she  walked  once  more  to  Simon's  room, 
tapped,  and  went  in.  It  was  still  empty.  She  laid 
his  old  shoes  where  she  had  found  them — under  the 
deal  table — and  dropped  her  tearful  handkerchief 
by  their  side,  shedding  innumerable  fresh  tears  the 
while. 

Alas!  Why  is  there  no  Eden  for  such  Eves? 
Why  is  it  that  only  God  is  good  enough  and  the 
devil  bad  enough  to  be  safe  in  their  company  ? 

She  sobbed  herself  to  sleep  on  the  floor.  Simon 
spent  the  night  in  his  study. 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


149 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

REALITY. 

At  sunrise,  Anne  awoke.  Her  limbs  ached  and 
she  felt  cold.  Hoping  that  she  had  caught  a  severe 
chill,  she  returned  to  her  own  room,  and,  with  a 
sufficiently  genuine  wish  that  she  might  die  before 
the  evening,  undressed,  nestled  in  the  bed,  and  sank 
into  a  deep  but  troubled  slumber. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  again,  it  was  ten 
o'clock,  and  Simon  was  standing  by  her  side.  The 
fatigue  and  violent  emotions  of  the  day  before  had 
impaired,  for  the  time,  her  excessive  prettiness.  She 
was  now  an  ordinary,  tired  woman  with  listless 
tresses,  uncertain  features,  dull  cheeks,  and  a  pale 
mouth.  She  had  twisted  one  lock  of  her  hair  into  a 
curling-pin  which  gave  that  note  of  the  grotesque  to 
her  ai)pearance  so  common,  and  often  so  fatal,  in 
domestic  tragedy.  But  in  all  the  pride  of  her 
beauty,  her  costly  gowns,  her  theatrical  posings  and 
vapourings,  she  had  never  touched  Simon's  heart  so 
nearly    as    she  did    at    that    worst,   critical    moment 


150  'I'HE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

when  all  her  personal  charms  were  under  eclipse. 
There  is  a  silent  eloquence  about  the  human  and 
commonplace  which  is  more  dangerous  to  a  kind  and 
honest  nature  than  any  passionate  appeal,  any 
elaborate  assault  on  the  senses,  any  armament  of 
finery,  civet-sweet  smiles,  or  languishments  in 
lace, 

Anne  made  as  though  she  would  timidly  offer 
him  her  hand,  but  drew  it  suddenly  back. 

"  I  know,"  she  sighed,  "that  you  would  not  take 
it!" 

He  took  them  both,  held  them  in  both  his  own, 
then  let  them  go  again,  as  though  they  were  little 
wild  birds  he  had  tried  to  love  into  docility. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  over  what  you  said  about 
going  away,"  he  began,  "and,  although  I  cannot  go 
to  Wey borough,  I  will  take  you  anywhere  else. 
Paris  might  amuse  you." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Nothing  can  ever  amuse  me  again,"  she  said. 
"  Nothing  can  ever  be  the  same  to  me  again  !  " 

True  to  her  mimetic  instinct,  she  had  borrowed, 
without  knowing  it,  Simon's  own  words  of  the 
night  before — Simon's  own  manner  in  saying  them. 
Warre's  anguish  had  been  so  real  and  so  profound 
that  even  Anne's  imitation  of  it  was  moving,  and,  as 
he  himself  did  not  perceive  that  it  was  but  an  apish 
copy  of  his  own  pain,  it  was  harder  for  him  to  see 


AND   LORD   WICKEXHAM.  151 

this  mere  reflection  of  adversity  in  his  miserable 
companion  than  to  suffer  the  original  grief. 

The  offending  coquetry  in  Anne  had  been  so 
drenched  by  her  tears  that  every  womanly  wile, 
every  instinct  of  cajolery  she  possessed,  was  droop- 
ing and  half-dead.  She  made  no  effort  to  attract 
Warre,  or  to  excite  his  compassion,  but  lay  there — a 
sexless  creature,  with  quivering  lips  and  weary 
face. 

Unconsciously  he  stooped  and  kissed  the  sharp 
frown  from  her  forehead  ;  it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
kissed  her  since  their  marriage. 

"  Poor  little  girl !  "  he  said. 

Anne  gave  a  drowsy  sigh,  and,  with  childish  un- 
concern, turned  herself  towards  the  wall  and  fell 
asleep  again.  He  folded  the  blankets  more  closely 
round  her  shoulders  and  drew  the  window-curtains 
nearer,  lest  the  light  should  tease  her  eyes. 

Then  he  went  away. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  it  might  yet  be  possible  for 
them  to  find  some  happiness  together.  .  .  if  not  as 
husband  and  wife,  at  least  as  friends.  He  had  always 
mocked  with  the  rest  of  the  world  at  the  notion  of  any 
mere  comradeship  between  a  man  and  a  woman.  In 
all  sucli  relations  there  was  always  one,  at  any  rate, 
whose  gaiety  walked  in  sackcloth,  and  whose  ad- 
mitted devotion  was  a  heart-breaking  privilege. 
Wickcnham,  he  remembered,  was  the  fierce  opponent 


152  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

of  every  falsely-sentimental  theory  on  the  subject  of 
so-called  Platonics. 

"  Why  don't  the  fools  begin  by  reading  their 
Plato  ?  "  he  would  say.  "  Let  'em  study  the  Phcsdrus. 
It's  a  complete  give-away  of  the  whole  fraud.  And 
devilish  well-written,  too.     The  old  scoundrel !  " 

But  Wickenham  did  not  know  all  things,  nor 
Plato  all  things  ! 

That  same  afternoon  Simon  and  Anne  started  on 
their  strange  honeymoon.  She  did  not  look  pretty, 
and  her  eyes  were  like  forget-me-nots  after  an  un- 
seasonable fall  of  snow.  She  was  still  so  exhausted 
that  she  slept  on  the  way  to  Dover. 

When  they  reached  the  Channel,  Warre  opened 
the  window. 

The  clouds  looked  as  though  a  mountainous  sea 
had  been  caught  up  into  the  sky  and  were  tossing  its 
froth  over  the  steely  plains  of  night.  The  wind  sang 
a  strange  song.  Anne  woke  up  and  trilled  a  little 
scale  in  response.  Simon  had  not  heard  her  sing 
before :  her  voice  was  like  a  fairy  flute.  He  had 
never  guessed  its  sweetness. 

The  two  sat  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer,  and, 
when  Anne  was  not  dozing,  she  laughed  at  the  huge 
green  waves,  the  absurd  little  boat,  and  her  own  dis- 
comfort. 

Who  would  not  have  been  charmed  by  such 
innocent  and  unusual  amiability  ? 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  1 53 

Poor  little  girl ! 

She  talked  a  little  and  told  him  three  small,  wholly 
superfluous  lies.  One  about  the  price  of  her  hat ; 
another,  about  her  former  visits  to  Paris  (she  had 
been  there  but  once  and  for  one  day  only) ;  and  the 
last,  about  the  number  of  governesses  who  had  as- 
sisted at  her  education.  The  first  taxed  his  credu- 
lity ;  the  second,  he  knew  was  an  untruth  ;  and  the 
third,  he  had  every  reason  to  doubt. 

Why  could  she  not  be  honest? 

The  pity  of  it  I  And  the  hopelessness!  The 
shame  of  it !     And  the  mystery  ! 

How  could  a  woman  be  so  eminently  lovable  in 
many  ways  and  yet  be  so  treacherous?  Look  so 
gracious  and  be  so  abject?  Lies,  he  thought  to  him- 
self, were  mainly  told  for  two  causes:  vanity  and 
cowardice.  Poor  Anne  often  lied  merely  to  make 
conversation.  The  truth  so  rarely  occurred  to 
her. 

At  Calais,  she  went  ashore  and  climbed  into  the 
train,  holding  her  skirts,  apparently  by  accident,  well 
above  her  ankles.  The  male  passengers  surveyed 
them  with  admiration  ;  she  had  brushed  against  one 
who  had  a  heavy  moustache  and  was  handsome. 
They  had  apologised  to  each  other.  She  liad 
thought  his  smile  charming. 

"  Never  do  that  again,"  said  Warrc,  when  they 
were  seated. 


154  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

"  What?"  she  asked,  with  a  splendid  blush. 

"  It  is  so  vulgar,"  he  replied. 

'•  How  could  I  help  it?  "  she  said.  "  Besides,  I  did 
nothing.  I  cannot  drag  these  good  clothes  through 
the  mud,  and  if  I  tread  on  some  unfortunate  per- 
son's toe — was  it  a  man  or  a  woman  ?  I  really 
could  not  see,  for  I  was  so  afraid  lest  I  should 
lose  you — if  I  tread  on  some  poor  creature's  toe 
I  must  at  least  beg  his  pardon.  You  are  unreason- 
able, darling  !  " 

Anne  thought,  however,  that  his  remark  arose 
from  marital  jealousy,  and  she  was,  therefore,  too 
flattered  to  feel  any  resentment.  And  was  it  not 
rather  clever  of  him  to  have  seen  through  her  trick? 
He  was  not  such  a  simpleton  after  all !  Women  re- 
spect a  man  whom  they  cannot  deceive,  but  only 
when  he  has  the  generosity  to  warn  them  of  his  dis- 
cernment. It  is  fatal  to  feign  a  belief  in  their  fool- 
ing, to  beguile  the  beguiler,  and  then,  after  a  period 
of  mutual  deception,  to  analyse,  with  cynical  accu- 
racy, each  enchanting  falsehood,  every  distracting 
gesture. 

Anne  was  impressed  by  the  discovery  that  Warre 
would  not  stand  any  nonsense. 

She  took  a  little  worn  book  out  of  her  ulster- 
pocket  and  began  to  read  her  night  prayers.  She 
also  asked  herself  the  various  and  searching  ques- 
tions given  for  the  examination  of  one's  conscience. 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  1 55 

This  duty  finished,  she  prayed  for  Simon's  conver- 
sion to  the  Anglican  Church,  and  at  last  fell  asleep 
wondering  whether  he  had  forgotten  the  black  pearl 
and  whether  her  gowns  would  look  fashionable  in 
Paris. 


156  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MORE   REALITIES. 

The  hotel  to  which  VVarre  had  telegraphed  for 
rooms  was  a  quiet  one,  and  Anne's  heart  sank  at  its 
appearance  until  she  learned  that  it  was  not  only 
famous  for  its  cuisine  but  more  expensive  than  the 
Continental. 

Their  salon  was  regal  with  red  damask,  a  large 
glass  chandelier,  marble  tables  with  gilt  legs,  and 
several  mirrors. 

"  It  reminds  me  of  one  of  the  ante-rooms  in  Buck- 
ingham Palace,"  observed  Anne,  in  a  loud  tone,  "  or 
am  I  thinking  of  Balmoral?" 

The  manager,  who  had  conducted  them  to  the 
apartment,  bowed,  and  for  the  wear  and  tear  to  his 
back-bone  mentally  added  five  francs  a  day  to  their 
bill. 

When  the  man  had  gone,  she  remembered  that 
Simon  knew  she  had  never  been  to  Scotland. 

"  You  see  so  many  photographs  of  Balmoral  and 
all  these  places,"   she   explained,   "  they   become  so 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


157 


familiar  to  you — that — you — seem  to  have  spent  years 
in  them." 

She  saw  his  mouth  twitch,  and  she  threw  her  arms 
round  his  neck. 

"  I  am  a  dreadful  little  snob,  and  I  know  it,"  she 
said.  "  But  snobs  get  the  best  attendance  and  the 
nicest  rooms,  and  the  most  comfortable  chairs,  and 
all  that  kind  of  thing,  wherever  they  go.  And  every- 
body wants  to  know  them  and  everybody  asks  who 
they  are.  You  are  so  quiet  that  I  wonder  how  on 
earth  you  get  on  in  your  profession.  Geniuses  are 
always  disappointing  in  their  air!  If  I  had  your 
gifts,  I  should  let  people  know  it  by  my  manner." 

Warre  heard  the  voice  of  Algernon  Dane  in  each 
word  she  uttered.  Would  he  ever  grow  accustomed 
to  it  ?  He  changed  the  subject  by  asking  her  what 
she  would  like  for  her  breakfast  and  when  she  wished 
to  have  it.  It  was  then  about  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  She  expressed  an  appetite  for  omelette, 
coffee  and  rolls,  which  were  to  be  served  at  nine. 
He  did  not  ring  for  the  waiter,  but  left  Anne  to  give 
the  order  herself  at  the  office. 

When  he  returned  he  found  the  door,  not  by  its 
number,  but  by  a  pair  of  little  boots  on  the  mat. 
They  were  pretty,  and  gleamed  with  patent  leather 
cut  in  patterns.  He  had  seen  them  at  Calais:  so  liad 
the  porters:  so  had  ail  the  male  passengers:  so  had 
the    good-looking    man    with    a    heavy    moustache. 


1 1 


158  THE    GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

Warre  passed  them,  and  entered  his  own  desolate 
room  hand-in-hand  with  despair. 

At  breakfast  that  morning,  Anne  was  in  the  high- 
est spirits.  She  talked  French  to  the  waiter,  and  en- 
couraged him  to  correct  her  accent.  To  please  him, 
too,  she  abused  English  cooking,  and  wondered  why 
one  could  not  get  a  decent  omelette,  or  coffee  one 
could  drink,  out  of  France. 

The  day  was  superb,  and  the  air  was  so  blue  that 
one  seemed  to  be  looking  at  the  whole  world  through 
a  transparent  turquoise.  The  sound  of  the  wheels 
and  horses  in  the  street  was  lighter,  quicker,  merrier, 
pitched  in  a  higher  key  than  the  solid,  thunderous 
rumble  of  London  traffic.  Anne  liked  the  bells 
which  jingled  and  tinkled,  and  flung  back  the  win- 
dows to  hear  them  more  distinctly.  The  sun  fell  on 
Simon's  head.  Anne  knew  that  many  men  were 
extraordinarily  sensitive  on  the  subject  of  bald- 
ness. 

"  Darling,"  she  said,  kindly,  "  you  work  too  hard. 
Your  hair  is  getting  thin."  She  had  not  yet  arranged 
her  own,  and,  as  it  was  only  caught  up  by  one  pin, 
she  make  a  sly  movement  and  shook  it  free. 

O,  how  tired  he  was  of  that  golden  mane ! 

"  I  wish,"  he  said,  drily,  "  you  could  manage  to 
keep  it  tidy.  It  looks  all  right  for  about  ten  min- 
utes, and  then  it  tumbles  down." 

They  each  laughed  a  little  and  pretended  to  be 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  159 

joking.     But  they    did    not   deceive    themselves   or 
each  other. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  a  number  of  nice  people 
here  ?  "  said  Anne,  presently.  "  You  must  call  on 
the  Cavernakes  at  once."  Lord  Cavernake  was  a 
distant  connection  of  VVarre's,  and  lived,  with  his 
wife,  in  Paris.  "  And  then,"  she  continued,  "  I  want 
to  meet  some  of  the  French  nobility,  and  some  of 
the  best  artistic  set.  I  do  not  care  about  sight-see- 
ing. One  can  run  through  the  Louvre  in  a  morning. 
But,  before  we  do  anything,  you  must  hire  a  proper 
carriage.     Two  horses,  of  course." 

"  We  can  only  stop  here  a  week,"  said  Warre, 
"  because  they  want  me  at  the  hospital.  It  is  not 
worth  while  beginning  the  tedious  business  of  paying 
calls  and  dining  out.  We  ought  to  be  able  to  amuse 
ourselves  by  driving,  and  going  to  the  theatres,  and 
seeing  what  is  to  be  seen." 

"Just  like  one  of  poor  papa's  clerks  on  his  honey- 
moon !  "  said  Anne.  "  I  remember  a  dreadful  little 
man  called  Salisbury,  who  married  a  governess,  and 
they  stopped  two  days  at  the  Grand  Hotel — not 
knowing  it  was  considered  rather  disreputable.  And 
they  used  to  hire  -^  fiacre  for  three  hours  every  day. 
They  saw  everything  in  the  guide-book,  and  always 
dined  at  a  Duval.  They  said  they  had  never  tasted 
such  excellent  chicken  for  the  money,  but  the  salad 
gave  them  indigestion.     I  le  called  one  Sunday  after- 


l6o  i'lll^    GODS,  SOME    MORIALS, 

noon  and  told  us  all  about  it.  Mamma  was  civil  to 
them  because  she  is  naturally  kind,  and  also  because 
Salisbury's  father  is  in  a  wine-merchant's,  some- 
where in  the  City,  and  he  can  get  us  the  best  Bur- 
gundy at  half-a-crown  less  than  the  Store  price.  Al- 
gernon Dane  tasted  it,  and  he  said  it  was  every  bit  as 
good — if  not  better — than  some  he  bought  at  Lord 
Winterbourne's  sale  at  one  hundred  and  forty-five 
shillings  the  dozen.  .  .  .  But  why  not  call  on  the 
Cavernakes  ?  Are  you  ashamed  of  me  ?  Who  was 
Lady  Cavernake  ?  Her  father  was  a  curate  at  Eal- 
ing. Mamma  has  seen  him  giving  blankets  to  old 
women.  And  he  was  the  sort  of  man  who  preached 
in  a  black  gown  !  " 

She  suddenly  felt  ashamed. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  that  an  empress 
would  get  common  and  say  vulgar  things  if  she 
lived  long  in  a  boarding-house.  I  wasn't  born  to 
be  a  snob,  dear,  but  everything  has  been  against  me. 
I  have  not  had  any  chance.  I  wonder  that  I  am  as 
refined  as  I  am  !  " 

She  went  into  her  bed-room,  and  he  feared  she 
was  going  to  cry.  But  she  had  discovered  that  it 
was  only  necessary  to  hint  at  the  boarding-house  to 
rouse  his  compassion.  So  she  spared  herself  the 
fatigue  of  weeping,  and,  instead,  dressed  in  her 
prettiest  clothes. 

Anne's  confidence  in  her   beauty  was   so   great, 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  i6l 

and  her  belief  in  Simon's  infatuation  so  complete, 
that,  in  spite  of  his  indifference  (which  she  easily  at- 
tributed to  fatigue  and  jealousy),  she  felt  quite  sure 
that  his  absolute  subjection  would  mean,  at  most,  a 
few  days'  struggle.  And,  sure  of  her  ultimate  vic- 
tory, she  enjoyed  the  prospect  of  battle. 

"  He  adores  me  !  "  she  said,  as  she  shed  penitence 
on  her  cheek  with  a  powder-puff.  "  He  worships 
me !  "  she  said  again,  as  she  brushed  her  eyelashes 
with  rose-water.  She  always  found  rose-water  a 
convenient  and  painless  substitute  for  tears.  She 
was  sorry  that  she  made  that  severe  remark  about 
his  hair,  but  it  was  only  fair  to  warn  him  that 
she  was  fastidious  .  .  .  indeed,  particular.  Besides, 
it  was  a  great  mistake  to  be  grateful  to  any  man. 
The  gratitude  ought  to  be  on  his  side.  And  with 
her  looks  !     Simon  had  the  best  of  it,  decidedly. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  thev  were  studiously 
polite.  In  the  afternoon  they  drove  in  the  Bois  and 
in  the  evening  they  went  to  the  Frangais.  Warre 
promised  her,  as  they  returned,  that  he  would  buy 
her  the  black  pearl  on  the  morrow.  She  had  to  lean 
out  of  the  carriage  window  to  hide  her  smile  of 
triumph.  Men  were  such  simple  creatures!  Just 
like  children. 

As  his  tone  grew  kinder,  her  manner  became 
more  demure.  She  drew  up  in  the  corner  of  the 
carriage  and  begged  his  pardon,   when,  the  wheels 


l62  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

sinking  suddenly  in  a  tram  line,  she  was  thrown 
against  his  arm. 

The  comedy  had  been  Francilloii.  Anne  could 
find  no  excuse  for  the  heroine's  conduct,  but  she 
thought  the  husband  made  a  sinful  mistake  in  neg- 
lecting her.  Like  most  people  who  trifie  with  life 
and  its  responsibilities,  she  took  all  purely  artificial 
things  in  terrible  earnest.  Anne  would  spend  hours 
discussing  the  wickedness  or  virtue  of  imaginary 
characters  in  a  play  or  a  romance,  and  dismiss  the 
events  of  her  own  existence  in  one  sleepy  "  Forgive 
us  our  trespasses." 

A  well-cooked  dinner,  champagne,  the  Theatre, 
and  a  knowledge  that  her  appearance  had  created  a 
sensation — every  opera-glass  in  the  building  had 
been  directed  at  their  box — all'  these  circumstances 
gave  her  an  efflorescent  good-humour.  She  called 
Warre's  attention  to  the  moon,  and  was  greatly 
touched  by  an  old  woman  whom  she  saw  in  the 
street  and  whom  she  feared  was  hungry. 

"  What  a  pity,"  she  exclaimed,  "  that  the  man  is 
driving  so  fast,  or  you  might  give  her  half-a-franc. 
I  left  my  own  purse  at  home.  But  how  thankful  we 
ought  to  be,  darling,  that  we  are  not  called  upon  to 
bear  such  cruel  trials  to  our  faith.  Poor  creature  ! 
Yet  I  dare  say,  if  we  knew  her  life,  we  should  find 
that  she  had  many  compensations  even  for  this  ap- 
parently insupportable  suffering  !  " 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  163 

While  Simon  read  his  letters  in  their  salon  at  the 
hotel,  she  stood  by  the  window,  gazing  up  at  the 
stars.  Then,  not  offering  to  kiss  him  good-night, 
went  quietly  away  to  her  room — to  take  off  her  hat, 
as  she  said.     But  she  did  not  return. 

Warre  smoked  for  half-an-hour,  expecting  her  re- 
appearance (probably  in  one  more  new  gown,  and 
with  her  hair  down  her  back),  and  not  asking  him- 
self whether  he  should  be  glad  or  sorry  if  she  came. 

Other    men    that    evening    had    eyed    him    with 

envy. 

Why  was  it  so  impossible  to  love  her?  The  life 
they  were  leading  could  not  continue.  One  day  of 
sham  marriage  had  convinced  him  of  its  folly.  It 
was  not  only  morbid,  unwholesome,  and  insane,  but 
profoundly  ridiculous.  He  never  thought  of  Alle- 
gra  now.  It  would  have  been  unfair  to  both  women. 
Like  all  men  in  a  false  position,  he  was  full  of  sophis- 
tries. He  called  himself  a  married  celibate,  and 
laughed  at  the  droll  paradox.  Anne  was  certainly 
beautiful,  and  she  was  not  more  mercenary  than 
others.  He  believed  she  was  fond  of  liiiii,  in  spite  of 
her  taunt  about  his  monev,  and  in  much  the  same 
mock-generous  strain  in  which  he  had  wished  her 
benefits  on  the  first  evening  of  their  acquaintance,  he 
began  to  wonder  how  he  could  make  her  happy. 
Was  it  not  his  duty  to  try  and  exert  a  good  iiillu- 
ence  over  her  character? 


164  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

This  thought  brought  his  spirit  such  consolation 
and  his  mind  such  ease  that,  by-and-by,  when  he 
went  to  bed,  he  slept  for  ten  hours  without  stirring. 

The  next  morning  Anne  was  very  silent.  She 
gave  long  sighs  and  little  forced  smiles.  They  vis- 
ited the  Louvre  and  Notre  Dame.  She  was  shocked 
by  some  of  the  works  of  art,  and,  in  Notre  Dame, 
prayed  for  some  time.  They  were  obliged  to  return 
to  the  hotel  to  have  the  dust  brushed  from  her 
gown,  for,  rejecting  a  pric-dicu,  she  had  knelt  on  the 
pavement.  At  luncheon  she  ordered  champagne. 
She  was  really  not  strong  enough  to  be  devout. 
And  yet,  for  example's  sake,  she  always  made  it  a 
rule  to  pray  when  she  entered  a  church.  After  the 
champagne  she  had  some  yellow  Chartreuse.  Then 
she  felt  sufificiently  restored  to  make  a  fresh  toilette, 
and  suggest  a  visit  to  the  Madeleine.  She  arrayed 
herself  in  the  cloth  gown  she  had  been  married  in, 
and  a  large  hat  adorned  with  superb  plumes.  It 
was  an  exact  copy  of  one  worn  by  a  popular  actress 
in  the  part  of  a  virtuous  courtesan.  Warre  re- 
marked that  the  bonnet  was  more  becoming. 

But  Anne  was  looking  handsome,  dashing,  bril- 
liant, and  she  knew  it.  The  hat  was  not  changed, 
and,  as  they  walked  through  the  street,  every  passer- 
by turned  to  look  after  them.  No  one  supposed  for 
an  instant  that  she  was  the  wife  of  her  sad  English- 
man ;    the    men    thought    him    fortunate    but   indis- 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


165 


erectly  proud  of  his  discover}^ ;  the  women  ex- 
changed glances,  and  the  children  stopped  playing. 

On  their  way  to  the  church  they  halted  at  a  book- 
shop, where  she  chose  half-a-score  of  French  novels. 
She  knew  the  language  well  enough  to  understand 
the  untranslatable.  Warre  did  not  approve  of  her 
selection,  but  he  did  not  like  to  seem  a  martinet;  she 
said,  too,  that  she  read  certain  authors  solely  for 
their  descriptions  of  scenery.  When  they  reached 
the  Madeleine,  she  was  too  tired  to  enter,  but  as  they 
had  sent  their  carriage  there  to  wait  for  them,  they 
stepped  into  this  and  drove  off  to  the  Bois.  But 
that  drive  made  her  uncomfortable,  because  their 
victoria  and  pair  was  only  a  hired  one.  Whenever  a 
block  occurred,  she  would  say,  in  a  loud  voice  to 
be  overheard  by  those  who  were  sitting  in  carriages 
or  standing  on  the  foot-path,  near  them  : 

"  What  a  pity  we  did  not  bring  Walton  and 
the  brougham  and  the  dear  horses  with  us  !  They 
would  have  enjoyed  this  so  much  !  " 

Warre  was  indiscreet  enough  to  point  out  the 
Cavernake's  landau,  which,  containing  the  governess 
and  the  eldest  girl,  happened  to  roll  past. 

"  What  a  very  plain  child  !"  said  Anne.  But  she 
was  horribly  depressed.  The  fine  carriage  and  the 
coronet  on  its  panels  had  excited  her  envy.  Why 
was  she  not  a  peeress?  What  was  a  genius,  after 
all,  no  matter  how  eminent  in  his  profession  ?     And 


l66  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

a  curate's  daughter  had  caught  Lord  Cavernake. 
How  had  the  little  snob  managed  it;  and  without  a 
penny,  too,  or  grand  connections?  Her  name  was 
Eliza  Lesser,  and  her  grandfather  had  been  in  trade. 

"Why  did  he  marry  her?"  she  asked  Simon 
when  they  got  home.  She  had  been  brooding  in 
silence  over  the  subject  all  the  way  there. 

"  He  loves  her,"  he  replied,  "  he  is  devoted  to 
her.  She  is  the  sweetest  creature  in  the  world.  All 
men  do  not  marry  for  money." 

"I  know  that!"  said  Anne,  with  a  sudden  im- 
pulse of  affection.  "I  know  that,  darling!  Didn't 
you  take  poor  little  poverty-stricken  me  ?  But  you 
do  not  love  me  as  you  used.  You  will  not  give  me 
any  opportunity  to  show  my  gratitude.  You  are  so 
cold  and  stern.  Never  mind  !  never  mind  !  I  shall 
always  love  you  just  the  same,  no  matter  what  hap- 
pens. But  O  !  if  I  had  only  been  brought  up  like 
Lady  Cavernake  in  some  quiet,  little  home  in  the 
country  .  .  .  hearing  only  good  things  and  meeting 
only  good  people  !  " 

She  rushed  into  her  room  and  wept  hysterically. 
Simon  felt  himself  a  mean  brute,  and  went  out  for  a 
walk.     How  was  all  this  going  to  end  ? 

When  he  had  gone,  Anne  read  the  Morning  Post 
which  her  mother  had  sent  her  from  London.  The 
fashionable  news  made  her  wretched.  How  she 
would  have  enjoyed  that  house-party  at  the  Duke  of 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  167 

Gaunt's !  That  hideous,  badly-dressed,  imperfectly 
washed  Elizabeth  Hastings  went  everywhere.  And 
why?  Merely  because  she  had  three  thousand  a 
year.  Then  the  dinner  at  Moreton  House.  Did 
Simon  know  the  Moretons  ?  They  knew  everyone. 
But  fancy  their  inviting  the  Winnipegs  to  meet 
a  Royal  Personage!  Who  were  the  Winnipegs? 
They  were  not  at  all  well  off,  and  never  entertained. 
Some  people  had  such  luck.  Oh,  dear  !  She  was 
sick  with  discontent. 

That  night  she  would  not  dine  in  the  restaurant 
of  the  hotel  as  usual,  but,  complaining  of  a  headache, 
ordered  the  dinner  to  be  served  in  their  sitting-room. 
It  was  stupid,  yet  she  imagined  that  it  was  the  sort 
of  dull  thing  Lady  Cavernake  would  like,  and  men 
would  think  her  szvcct  for  liking. 

"  The  last  time  I  was  in  Paris,"  said  Warre,  quite 
innocently,  "  the  Cavernakes  were  only  here  on  a 
visit — they  lived  in  Rome  at  that  time — and  we  all 
stopped  together  at  this  hotel.  We  had  that  little 
table  near  the  window." 

"  Which  little  table?"  asked  Anne. 

"  The  one  in  the  restaurant  downstairs,"  said 
Warre,  "where  the  fat  man  with  the  three  thin 
daughters  sat  last  night.     It  was  very  jolly  !  " 

Anne  pushed  away  her  plate.  Simon  began  to 
get  on  Iter  nerves.  She  hatcfl  everything  and  every- 
bodv.     (),  to  be  dead!     But,  in  the  meantime,  more 


l68  IJH^   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

champagne.  Dane  had  trained  her  to  believe  in  the 
splendid  efficacy  of  this  tonic,  and  to  regard  any 
sober  mood  as  low  spirits,  perilous  to  her  beauty,  her 
health,  and  her  happiness.  Warre,  to  restrain  her, 
drank  the  greater  part  of  the  bottle  himself.  She 
ordered  another.  By  the  time  they  had  reached  the 
dessert  she  looked  like  a  young  Bacchante.  Youth 
was  still  in  her  favour.  It  was  only  in  rare  moments 
and  side-lights  that  the  hard  lines  and  coarse  flush  of 
the  future  threw  their  ugly  forecast  on  her  face. 

Simon  was  by  nature  extremely  temperate,  but 
idleness,  the  desire  to  escape  from  his  own  despair, 
and  Anne's  companionship  were  already  beginning 
to  have  a  demoralising  effect  on  his  mind.  Why  not 
accept  the  inevitable  ?  Why  not  make  the  best  of  the 
inevitable?  Why  not  make  the  best  of  an  inevitable 
which  was  really  not  unpleasant  from  several  points 
of  view — the  robust,  Pagan  point  of  view,  more  espe- 
cially ?  The  thought  was  fast  becoming  more  elab- 
orate. Words  develop  strangely :  the  root  may  be  a 
meagre  thing,  barren,  dry,  yet  it  will  yield  a  whole 
system  of  ethics. 

Anne's  conversation  took  a  poetic  strain,  and  she 
used  all  the  pretty  phrases  she  could  remember  from 
the  songs  she  had  learnt — many  of  them  the  composi- 
tions of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  and  Adelaide 
Proctor  and  Shelley.  Dane  had  besmirched  every 
one  with  his  impure  innuendoes,  for  he  discovered  vice 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  169 

even  among  the  flowers,  but  what  little  womanly 
sentiment  the  girl  possessed  still  hovered  over  cer- 
tain tender  lines  which  no  foul  explanation  could 
make  entirely  hideous.  She  knew  now  that  Simon 
was  not  to  be  won  bv  the  coarse  blandishments 
which  flattered  the  profound  vulgarity  and  depraved 
instincts  of  Algernon  Dane.  It  had  been  the  one 
mental  pleasure  in  his  career  to  pour  vile  knowl- 
edge into  her  young,  impressionable  mind.  He  had 
tried  the  same  system  with  Sarah :  she  had  withered 
under  it  at  first,  hiding  herself  away  from  the  sight  of 
all  creatures,  but  she  had  lived  her  childhood  among 
pure  women  and  chivalrous  men  ;  she  was  older,  and 
stronger,  and  wiser  than  Anne:  she  had  strong  prin- 
ciples, and  a  sound,  commonplace  temperament. 
She  had  only  been  troubled  for  a  year  or  two. 

Anne's  character,  however,  had  received  its  per- 
manent tinge.  Her  innocence  was  lost  in  the  black- 
ness of  darkness  for  ever.  Yet  she  was  relieved  to 
find  that  Simon  was  different,  and  to  suspect  that 
even  all  worldly  men — those  who  knciv  how  to  enjoy 
life — had  not  the  tastes  of  her  destroyer.  The  unfor- 
tunate woman  watched  Warrc  timidly,  and,  at  last, 
with  tears  in  her  wisfful  eyes,  said  : 

"  Why  didn't  I  meet  you  first  ?  " 

it  was  too  pitiful.     She  continued: 

"  I  will  never  ask  you  to  forgive  nic,  dearest. 
Hut   some  day,  when    1   am   old,  and   tired,  and  sad, 


\yo  THE   GODS.  SOME   MORTALS, 

and  you  think  I  have  suffered  enough,  perhaps  you 
will  tell  me  that  I  am  forgiven.  You  are  the  only 
one  in  the  world  who  has  ever  been  kind  to  me,  dear. 
Dane  never  loved  me  at  all :  days  when  I  didn't  look 
my  best  he  was  always  rude  and  neglectful.  And 
now  when  I  think  that  1  have  lost  your  affection  for 
ever  .  .  .  that  it  will  never  be  mine  again  .  .  .  never, 
never,  never  again — I  wake  up  in  the  night  and  I 
fancy  that  the  room  is  my  grave,  and  I  draw  the 
sheet  over  my  face  and  say  :  '  Hide  me  now  I  am 
dead.  No  one  cared  for  me  while  I  lived,  and  in 
death  I  am  all  alone.  But  I  am  misery's  love ;  mis- 
ery and  I  are  buried  together.  Let  the  worms  eat 
misery  first ! '  " 

At  this  horrid  thought  she  grew  pale  and  cowered 
before  the  terrors  of  her  own  imagination,  a  trem- 
bling, haunted,  hunted  soul. 

She  seized  her  liqueur-glass  and  drowned  a  scream 
with  its  contents. 

Then  she  laughed. 

"  My  God  !  We  must  live  while  we  live.  If  you 
turn  back  from  going  to  the  Devil,  it  is  as  bad  as 
turning  back  from  the  way  to  Heaven.  For  then 
you  don't  arrive  anywhere.  The  good  ones  won't 
have  you  and  you  bore  the  bad  ones.  As  you  begin, 
you  must  end.     That  is  only  common-sense." 

She  stood  up  and  went  towards  the  door. 

"  I  am  going  out  into  the  street  where  I  belong," 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  171 

she  said  ;  "  there  I  shall  find  a  few  friends  ;  they  will 
be  kind  to  me.  But  I  must  not  put  it  off  too  late — 
till  I  have  lost  my  looks.  Thank  God,  I  am  pretty. 
.  .  .  They  will  be  very  kind  to  me ;  they  won't  make 
me  feel  so  beastly  miserable  !  " 

Nevertheless,  she  turned  back,  and,  with  a  wild 
cry,  flung  herself  on  Warre's  breast.  "  Save  me 
from  myself !  Save  me  from  these  other  men  !  O 
Simon,  save  me  from  these  other  men !  I  know 
them.  Dane  wasn't  the  only  one.  But  the  others 
were  for  love ;  one  had  to  marry  a  rich  girl  and 
the  other  was  already  married  to  a  dreadful  widow 
with  money.  I  have  been  so  unlucky.  I  no  sooner 
quarrelled  with  one  bad  lot  than  I  met  another !  O 
Simon,  you  must  save  me  from  myself ! " 

This  confession  did  not  surprise  him.  After  the 
first  disillusion,  science  and  sentiment  had  wrestled 
in  his  soul  for  her  character,  and,  although  he  had 
never  owned  the  result  in  clear  thoughts,  Anne  her- 
self had  now  said  it  for  him.  He  bowed  to  the  ap- 
palling declaration.     She  was  a  wanton. 

"Why  make  these  terrible  scenes?"  he  said, 
quietly  ;  "  why  refer  to  these  things  which  I  want 
you  to  forget.  Finish  your  coffee  and  then  1  will 
take  you  out.     This  room  is  too  close  !  " 

But  women  like  Anne  onlv  live  in  scoics,  and  she 
grew  sullen,  as  she  usually  did  when  Warre  showed 
no  disposition  to  play  his  part  in  her  riotous  drama. 


172  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

"  I  shall  say  what  I  please !  "  she  answered.  "  I 
hate  your  supercilious  airs  and  your  quiet  way. 
Why  can't  you  speak  out  ?  " 

She  took  up  her  cup,  and,  pretending  to  aim  at 
Warre,  dashed  it  on  the  ground.  She  always  had  a 
certain  cunning  control  over  her  very  abandon- 
ment. 

"  I  told  you  I  had  a  temper  !  Now  you  can  see 
it  for  yourself !  " 

The  saucer  and  the  fruit-plate  were  hurled  next. 
One  missed  his  face  by  an  inch. 

"  And  now,"  she  shouted,  "  I  hope  you  are  satis- 
fied. You  have  spoilt  my  whole  evening!  My  God, 
you  would  try  the  patience  of  a  saint !  Dont  make 
these  scenes  !  " 

She  mimicked  his  voice,  and  made  diabolic  gri- 
maces till  she  caught  sight  of  herself  in  the  mirror. 
Then  she  shrieked  with  fright. 

But  her  tongue  soon  recovered  its  abuse,  and, 
for  the  next  half-hour,  Warre  listened  to  threats, 
complaints,  oaths,  and  obscenities.  Yet  there  was 
something  so  wild  and  irresponsible  about  the  af- 
flicted soul  that  he  could  not  feel  anger.  She  only 
roused  the  immense  and  speechless  pity  he  always 
suffered  for  those  blighting  and  blighted  creatures 
called  hysterical.     His  soul  wept  as  he  watched  her. 

Anne  went  at  last  to  her  room,  but  not  until  she 
had  sobbed  her  remorse  on  Warre's  breast,  implor- 


AND   LORD    WICKEXHAM.  1 73 

ing  his  forgiveness  and  suggesting  that  he  still 
loved  her. 

"  Kiss  me  !  Say  you  love  me  a  little,  darling  !  I 
don't  know  what  I  have  been  saying,  but  I  never 
meant  a  word  of  it.  Precious  !  don't  look  so  de- 
pressed ;  it  depresses  vie.  Smile,  dearest.  All 
women  are  unladylike  when  they  get  in  a  temper  ; 
they  remember  all  the  things  men  have  said  to 
them  !     Darling,  I  want  you  to  smile." 

When  she  had  gone,  he  went  out  into  the  air. 
He  chose  a  dark  street,  and  no  man  saw  the  tears 
he  shed,  alone  in  the  night  of  that  gay  city. 

The  next  morning  Warre  received  a  telegram 
from  London  summoning  him  to  a  consultation. 
When  Anne  heard  that  the  patient  was  Mr.  Samuel 
Wenslow,  the  great  auctioneer,  she  was  not  only 
willing  but  anxious  to  return  at  once. 

"  Vou  can  make  him  pay  well  for  the  inconven- 
ience and  disappointment,"  she  said.  "  He  is  as  rich 
as  Croesus.  And  how  well  he  used  to  dress  Mrs. 
Bolingbroke  !  I  have  seen  them  at  the  Savoy,  but 
he  always  took  his  wife  and  Bolingbroke  as  well.  I 
never  saw  a  man  so  careful  I  If  he  went  into  the 
country  for  a  Sunday,  Bolingbroke  and  the  little 
boy  had  to  go,  too.  And  now  the  poor  old  thing  has 
got  paralysis.  You  must  cure  him,  dear,  for  Mrs.  Bol- 
ingbroke's  sake.  She  is  a  good  little  woman  with  a 
rather  attractive  squint.     And  so  kind  to  the  poor  !  " 

12 


1/4 


THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 


CHAPTER   XV. 

PLAIN    FACTS. 

Anne  seemed  very  happy  to  find  herself  once 
more  in  her  Italian  boudoir,  and,  every  morning,  be- 
fore she  fatigued  her  voice  by  giving  orders  to  the 
housekeeper,  would  sing  for  two  hours  or  so  at  the 
Steinway  piano.  Warre,  in  his  study  underneath, 
seeing  patients,  or  writing  his  new  book  on  Nervous 
Disease,  used  to  wince  at  the  sound  of  the  slow 
scales  and  quick  arpeggios,  but  he  did  not  like  to 
complain  of  her  innocent  pleasures.  One  afternoon 
she  was  seized  with  the  whim  to  be  economical  and 
engaged  a  woman  to  come  with  a  sewing  machine, 
which,  while  he  laboured  to  compose  a  lecture  for 
the  Royal  Institution,  rumbled  over  his  head  from 
three  till  seven.  At  dinner  Anne  showed  him  four 
yards  of  massacred  velvet,  representing  two  guineas. 
The  wretched  sempstress  had  a  sick  husband  and 
three  children  with  the  croup  !  It  was  a  charity  to 
go  out  of  ones  way  to  find  work  for  the  poor  soul ! 

But  Anne,  in  her  manner,  had  now  become  very 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  1 75 

quiet  and  most  demure.  She  no  longer  protested 
her  love,  but,  like  a  child,  used  to  kiss  Warre  good- 
night and  good-morning  on  the  cheek.  In  the  after- 
noons she  drove  out  with  Sarah  Dane,  who,  glad  of 
distraction,  accompanied  her  into  shops,  and  ad- 
mired her  wonderful  taste  in  selecting  furniture  for 
the  drawing-room.  Anne  postponed  all  visits  and 
visitors,  returned  no  calls,  and  discouraged  those 
who  would  pay  them,  because,  as  she  said,  her  home 
was  not  in  order.  Sometimes,  after  dinner,  she 
would  read  aloud  to  Simon  or  embroider  crooked 
initials  on  some  handkerchiefs  which  she  had  pur- 
chased at  a  sale,  for  his  birthday.  She  was  always 
very  thrifty  when  she  bought  presents. 

Her  dresses  now  were  in  delicate  shades  of  helio- 
trope, peach,  and  twilight  blue — simple  eighteen- 
guinea  gowns  which  dear,  clever  Simon  could  earn 
in  a  morning,  without  trouble.  He  had  only  to  sit 
in  his  study  and  write  prescriptions.  What  a 
talent ! 

She  never  asked  to  be  taken  to  the  theatre,  and, 
when  Sarah  invited  them  to  dine  with  her,  very 
quietly,  to  meet  her  trustees  (handsome  Colonel 
Dane  of  the  Guards,  and  that  great  man  of  the  Turf, 
Sir  George  Durham),  Anne  grew  rather  flurried  and 
said  for  some  reason  she  did  not  care  to  sec 
strangers.  Sarah,  who  was  never  at  a  loss  for  the 
conventional    cxj)lanation    of  any  mystery,  thought 


lyS  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

she  understood  the  young  bride's  diffidence,  but  was 
too  shy  and  reserved  a  woman  to  do  more,  in  conse- 
quence, than  treat  her  friend  with  a  grotesque  ten- 
derness. Mrs.  Warre  was  not  to  be  thwarted  or 
contradicted,  and,  when  their  shopping  reached  the 
second  floor  of  any  establishment,  Sarah  would  as- 
cend the  stair-case  first  to  see  whether  it  would  be 
worth  Anne's  while  to  mount  it  also.  She  ordered 
flowers  and  fruit  to  be  sent  to  Grosvenor  Street 
daily  from  her  country  house  in  Essex,  and,  as  she 
was  extremely  dexterous  at  lace-making  and  fine 
needlework,  she  started  a  wonderful  basket  which 
she  would  hide,  with  a  blush,  when  she  heard  Anne's 
footstep.  Once  when  she  found  her  friend  rather 
downcast,  she  said,  with  guileless  cunning. 

"  Your  figure  looks  extremely  well,  dear,  in  that 
blue  cloth ! " 

"Why  shouldn't  it  look  well?"  said  Anne,  pee- 
vishly. "  Don't  be  silly,  Sarah.  When  you  are  silly, 
you  are  so  very  silly  !  " 

Poor  Sarah  giggled,  and  thought  how  amusing  it 
was  to  tease  Anne.  The  little  creature  would  revel 
in  these  minute  jests  which  she  alone  knew  and 
which  she  only  could  understand.  They  were  her 
secrets,  and,  when  other  women  in  society  looked 
wise  over  their  ambitious  schemes  and  amorous 
intrigues,  Sarah  felt  no  less  blessed  and  equally 
mysterious  with  her  tiny  rises  and  scores,  which,  she 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  I77 

thought,  would  startle  the  world  very  much  could 
they  have  been  made  known.  O  !  they  were  such 
fun  !  What  a  burden  her  conscience  carried  in  those 
some  four  invisible  jokes  ! 

Warre  was  touched,  yet  not  altogether  bewildered, 
at  the  change  in  Anne.  His  experience  forbade  him 
to  hope  that  it  was  more  than  a  mood,  and  he  dreaded 
the  reaction.  Yet  how  charming  she  was  in  those 
days  !     One  morning  she  said  to  him  : 

"  I  want  to  win  back  your  respect,  dear." 
He  tried  to  love  her.  The  monotony  of  the 
simple,  regular  life  they  were  leading  gave  Anne  a 
still  excitement,  just  as  one  note  repeated  several 
times  in  music,  insisted  on,  accentuated,  long  drawn 
out,  soothes  the  ear  for  the  inevitable  lower  fall  or 
shriller  pitch  in  the  tone.  When  will  it  come? 
What  sound  will  it  be  ?  The  girl's  spirit  grew  out- 
wardly calmer :  her  face  regained  its  almost  angelic 
beauty,  borrowing  innocence  from  the  peaceful  at- 
mosphere which  breathed  around  her.  And  as  her 
affection  for  Simon  became  more  honest,  she  had  no 
wish  to  indulge  in  the  studied  coquetries  which 
women  play  off  against  such  men,  who,  vain  them- 
selves, only  appeal  to  a  woman's  vanity.  The  native 
asceticism  in  Warre's  character  exercised  the  same 
fascination  for  licr  which  the  ascetic  invariably  exerts 
over  the  worldly  and  self-indulgent.  It  is  one  of  tlic 
profound  laws  in  the  economy  of  human  nature — this 


1^8  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

tribute  of  the  flesh  to  the  spirit.  Warre's  patience, 
kindness  of  disposition,  generosity,  and  devotion  to 
his  work  often  filled  Anne  with  envious  exasperation  : 
she  watched  him,  lynx-like,  for  a  moment  of  self- 
betrayal.  But  although  he  sometimes  spoke  hastily, 
and  showed,  on  occasions,  a  quick  temper,  the  more 
she  observed  the  tenor  of  his  daily  life,  the  more  she 
believed  in  his  integrity.  With  tears  in  her  eyes  she 
would  tell  Sarah  that  poor  old  Simon  was  a  born 
saint :  it  was  no  credit  to  him  that  he  was  so  good, 
however,  because  there  was  nothing  bad  in  his  heart. 
Darling,  unnatural  pet!  Cold  intellectuality !  She 
never  supposed  that  the  poor  fellow  ever  had  an 
instinct  to  curb,  a  passion  to  control,  or  a  word  to 
check:  she  knew  nothing  of  the  struggles  in  his  soul, 
or  of  the  atrocious  mental  suffering  which  racked  his 
strong  nature — as  strong  in  its  possibilities  for  evil 
as  in  its  aspiration  towards  the  right.  She  knew 
nothing  of  the  all  but  irresistible  temptations  which 
pursued  him — sometimes  with  relentless  cruelty, 
sometimes  with  a  sly  persistence,  sometimes  with- 
drawing altogether  for  an  easeful  period,  only  to 
return  again  with  renewed  strength  and  greater  cun- 
ning. But  she  began  to  understand  his  handsome 
face,  and,  when  a  former  lover  once  passed  her  car- 
riage in  the  Row,  she  thought  him  brutally  coarse 
and  wondered  why  she  had  ever  admired  a  type  so 
unrefined.     vShe  determined,  too,  to  gain  her  victory 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  Ij^ 

over  Simon.     When  she  read  Shakespeare  to  him  in 
the  evening,  she  would  find  out,  by  artless  questions, 
what  qualities  he  admired  in  the  heroine,  and,  when 
works   of    art    were    reproduced    in    the  illustrated 
journals,  she  observed   the   types   of   beauty   which 
pleased    him    most.     He    was   touched,  but   not  de- 
ceived,   when   she   talked    in    the    tender    strain   of 
Imogen,  attempted  the  wit  of  Beatrice,  and  dressed 
her  hair  like  Romney's  Lady  Hamilton.    Who  could 
deny  the  childish  grace  with  which  she  told  her  un- 
intentional, purely  spontaneous   lies ;  or  who   could 
think,  when  she  blushed  and  glanced  aside,  that  she 
was  really  responsible  for  all  that  she  said  and  did 
under   the  stress  of  passion?     Sometimes  she   sang 
sad  songs  till  his  heart  nearly  broke  with  their  pathos, 
and  she  trilled  ballads  from  Shakespeare  and  Shelley 
till  the  voice  seemed  the  words,  and  the  words,  the 
women,  and  all  their  exquisite  beautv,  her  own.     He 
also  began  to  believe  in  her  affection  for  himself,  and 
he  was  one  who  craved  and  longed  for  sympathy  as 
only  men  who  are  called  self-reliant  can  crave  it.    But 
it  was  not  in  Anne's  conscience  to  be  faithful  :  she  be- 
longed to  the  eternal  race  of  Molly  Seagrims:  surh 
women  arc  at  the  mercy  of  every  comely  libertine, 
and  every  comely  libertine  is  at  their  mercy  :  they 
are    lightly    caught,    and    as    lightly    they    escape. 
Warre  knew  that   if  he  wished   to  possess  any  per- 
manent influence  over  Anne  it  was  only  to  be  held 


I  So  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

by  maintaining  an  almost  inhuman  reserve — a  pas- 
sionless indifference.  Like  all  those  with  whom  love 
has  degenerated  into  a  capricious  instinct,  she  had  a 
secret  contempt  for  those  who  were  appealed  to  by 
her  fascination.  She  never  felt  a  sincere  trust  in 
Warre  until  she  learnt  that  he  was  not  to  be  won  by 
tricks  and  flatteries. 

One  day  she  met  a  lady  in  the  hall  who  rustled 
past  her,  reeking  of  patchouli,  and  swaying  her  elab- 
orate petticoats.  She  recognised  her  as  Mrs.  Boling- 
broke.  Anne  ran  into  Warre's  study  with  white 
cheeks. 

"  She  is  not  a  patient,"  she  panted  ;  "  she  pretends 
to  consult  you  about  old  Wenslow,  but  she  will  try 
and  make  love  to  you.  I  know  the  creature !  I 
have  every  confidence  in  you :  I  will  never  say  a 
word  about  your  ideas — perhaps  it  is  as  well  you 
have  them,  for  I  am  very  jealous,  and  I  would  have 
no  one  come  between  us.  You  are  mine  !  No  other 
woman  shall  take  you  from  me  !     You  are  mine  ! " 

Wickenham  had  gone  abroad,  and  Warre  now 
saw  no  one  except  his  colleagues  at  the  hospital  and 
his  patients.  So  busy  a  man  was  not  expected  to 
play  an  active  part  in  society,  and  Anne  delighted 
those  who  were  old-fashioned  by  her  apparent  devo- 
tion to  her  husband  and  her  home.  Simon's  relatives 
conceded  that  his  hasty  marriage  was,  in  every  sense 
of   the  word,  a  success,  and,  having  more  amusing 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  i8l 

topics  and  people  to  claim  their  attention,  than  a 
well-matched  couple  who  showed  every  desire  to  be 
let  alone,  they  dismissed  him  from  their  minds. 

"  The  Warres,"  they  said,  "  are  charming,  but  so 
self-centered." 

Sir  Hugh  and  Lady  Delaware,  however,  dined 
with  the  young  people  every  Sunday.  The  Baronet 
would  carry  away  his  supply  of  cigars  for  the  week, 
and  her  ladyship  would  give  advice  which  usually 
created  a  tornado  in  the  kitchen  for  three  mornings 
out  of  the  seven.  Simon  would  laugh,  for,  on  the 
whole,  things  went  smoothly. 

But  when  only  two  weeks  remained  of  the  Lon- 
don season,  Anne  declared  that  her  drawing-room 
was  habitable,  and  surprised  Warre  by  sending  out 
three  hundred  invitations  to  an  evening  party. 
Many  of  them  were  his  own  acquaintances  :  some 
were  Sarah  Dane's :  the  rest  were  artistic  celebrities 
whom  Anne  herself  had  known  before  her  marriage, 
and  to  whom  she  now  showed  an  ostentatious  friend- 
liness. The  lesser  lights  among  them  eat  her  supper 
with  an  ill-humoured  appetite,  and  those  who  were 
more  distinguished,  fmding  three  Cabinet  Ministers 
and  a  neat  selection  from  the  Peerage  in  the  throng, 
remained  longer  than  they  had  intended.  But  the 
entertainment  was  not  a  success.  It  injured  Warre 
in  his  profession,  where  he  was  already  somewhat 
impo[)ular,  on  account  of  his  aristocratic  connections 


1 82  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

and  his  youth  :  they  said  Jie  was  coming  on  too  fast. 
The  aristocratic  connections,  on  the  other  hand,  were 
not  disposed  to  welcome  a  rival  hostess  in  the  person 
of  any  Mrs.  Simon  Warre.  Her  husband  made  a 
decent  income,  but  he  had  neither  the  position  nor 
the  wealth  to  play  any  prominent  part  in  the  world 
of  fashion.  Several  leaders  of  society  allowed  it  to 
be  understood  that  they  would  not  in  future  find  it 
convenient  to  grace  the  Grosvenor  Street  receptions. 
It  was  not  right  to  encourage  a  foolish  young  couple 
in  living  beyond  their  means.  The  doctor's  wife 
dressed  far  too  richly  for  her  station  ;  she  might  have 
been  the  Queen  of  SJieba :  and  she  showed  bad  taste  in 
keeping  all  the  best  men  round  her  own  chair.  They 
could  not  get  away  from  her.  Then  let  her  have  the 
men,  by  all  means.  When  women  are  driven  to 
grant  this  liberal  concession,  they  mean  mischief. 

Morning  after  morning,  noon  after  noon,  night 
after  night,  Anne  watched  the  post  for  the  notes  of 
invitation  which  did  not  come.  The  wives  of  Simon's 
colleagues  had  found  her  too  patronizing  :  she  had 
offended  for  ever  three  dowagers  by  her  tiara,  and 
her  smile  had  been  too  intellig-ent  at  four  other  la- 
dies  whose  husbands  were  called  indulgent.  Anne 
ground  her  pretty  teeth,  and,  dressing  more  elabo- 
rately than  ever,  sat  with  Sarah  Dane  or  Lady  Dela- 
ware in  the  Row,  to  force  salutations  from  a  large 
acquaintance  who,  although   they  hated,  could   not 


AND   LORD   WICKE.XHAM,  183 

cut  her.  Mrs.  Dane  as  a  rich,  not  old,  virtuous,  and 
amiable  widow,  had  an  euphonious  visiting  list  as 
long  as  two  arms,  but,  while  she  was  highly  es- 
teemed, she  was  neither  ambitious  nor  clever,  her 
own  sex  found  her  dull,  and  men,  the  sort  of  woman 
you  can  only  marry.  Her  chair  in  the  park  was 
treated  with  distant  reverence,  and  when  Anne  sat 
by  her  side  in  all  her  defiant  beauty,  hats  were  lifted 
and  gentle  bonnets  bowed  with  perhaps  too  marked 
a  direction  towards  the  widow.  It  was  hard  to  bear. 
If  only  Lord  Wickenham  were  in  town  !  He  came 
of  too  ancient  a  family  to  be  a  snob :  he  was  Simon's 
dearest  friend,  and  would  not,  Anne  felt  sure,  see  his 
friend's  wife  treated  so  unkindl3\  He  would  have 
invited  them  to  his  dinner  parties,  his  house  parties, 
and  on  his  yacht:  he  ruled  supreme  in  his  own  set, 
for  he  was  so  independent  of  them  all :  he  was  rich, 
he  was  a  bachelor.  O  why  did  he  not  return  to  be 
her  champion  ? 

The  Senior  Physician  at  the  I  lospital  fell  seriously 
ill,  and  Simon  was  obliged  to  remain  in  town  for  the 
whole  summer.  Sarah  Dane  went  to  St.  JNIoritz  witli 
the  Duchess  of  Wark;  even  Sir  Hugh  and  Lady 
Delaware  took  their  annual  three  weeks'  leave; 
Warre's  mother.  Lady  I  lenrietta,  and  her  husband, 
the  Kcv.  Mountstuart  Thompson,  had  long  been 
absent  from  England  at  one  of  the  large  towns  in  the 
south  of  I-"rancc,  where  he  was  IJrifish  Cha|)I;iin,  and 


1 84  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

where  her  ladyship,  as  his  invalid  but  talkative  wife, 
made  him  a  much  commiserated  man. 

August,  September,  and  half  of  October  passed. 
Anne  no  longer  offered  to  read  aloud  in  the  evenings 
and  she  no  longer  sang.  Nothing  amused  her.  She 
thought  no  more  either  of  love  or  lovers ;  ambition, 
for  the  time,  was  her  ruling  passion,  and,  unable  to 
gratify  it,  she  pined.  Warre  was  yet  handsome  in 
her  sight,  and,  when  she  felt  in  the  humour,  she  could 
still  distract  herself  by  trying  to  please  him.  But 
she  was  so  rarely  in  the  mood.  She  would  lie  for  an 
hour  at  a  time  on  the  floor  of  her  room,  face  down- 
wards, with  clenched  hands,  biting  the  dust,  praying 
for  triumph  over  her  enemies.  She  had  a  supersti- 
tious belief  in  the  power  of  prayer.  Warre  found  her 
senseless  in  her  boudoir  one  day  with  a  bottle  of 
chlorodyne  in  one  hand  and  a  paper  bearing  the 
words  ''  I  am  tired  of  life''  in  the  other.  She  soon 
revived  ;  women  like  Anne  only  commit  suicide  by 
accident.  They  never  mean  to  swallow  more  than 
an  indiscreet  dose  of  any  poison  ;  their  object  is  not 
to  kill  themselves,  but  to  alarm  others.  Warre  was 
not  terrified  ;  his  distress  was  something  deeper  than 
terror. 

"  Why  do  you  make  yourself  so  wretched  ? "  he 
said. 

"  I  hate  the  world  !  "  she  sobbed  ;  "  women  are  all 
such  cats  and  the  men  are  all  such  cowards.     If  I 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  185 

had  been  born  an  heiress,  London  would  have  been 
at  my  feet.  But  because  I  am  only  your  wife,  and 
because  I  am  beautiful,  they  want  to  trample  me 
down.  They  are  like  wild  beasts.  And  I  am  no 
parvenue,'"  she  added,  drying  her  eyes.  "  The  Dela- 
wares  and  Pavenhams  were  mostly  blackguards,  and 
they  never  brought  much  virtue  to  any  house" — (she 
had  the  decency  to  blush  as  she  owned  this) — "  but 
they  were  certainly  distinguished  ;  they  were  men 
who  fought  for  their  country,  and  women  of  high 
caste,  who,  if  they  sometimes  loved  too  well,  had  the 
courage  to  admit  it." 

Anne  drew  herself  up  with  the  traditional  dignity 
of  a  traditional  queen  in  exile. 

"And  I  am  no  adventuress,"  she  continued.  "I 
demand  my  right  place  in  society,  and  I  will  have 
that  place.  Becky  Sharpes  and  INIadame  Bovarys  fail 
because  they  try  to  get  where  they  do  not  belong. 
But  I  am  only  asking  for  my  due.  I  will  not  come 
down  to  the  nobodies ;  they  have  no  mind,  no  taste, 
no  spirit;  they  are  afraid  of  each  (jthcr;  they  are 
dull,  pompous  fools!  They  were  forced  upon  me 
when  I  lived  in  that  detestable  boarding-house,  and 
they  loathed  me  because  they  saw  I  did  not  bear 
their  stamp.  I  was  born  to  meet  people  who  know 
how  to  use  this  world  !  I  will  not  be  cheated  of  my 
birthright.  But,  ()!  how  hard  it  is  to  be  obliged  to 
fight  for  what  is  lawfully  your  own  !  " 


l86  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

All  the  nii^ht  she  paced  her  floor,  weaving  impos- 
sible schemes  of  revenge,  and  yet  more  impossible 
modes  of  battle.  But  she  concealed  these  plans  from 
Warre,  who  had  a  great  contempt  for  such  vulgar 
and  ignominious  nonsense.  She  made  it  a  rule,  too, 
never  to  ask  the  advice  of  a  failure.  She  regarded 
him  as  a  social  failure.  Why  had  he  not  gone  into 
Parliament — as  his  mother  had  so  wisely  counselled  ? 
He  had  the  makings  of  a  fine  speaker ;  his  presence, 
too,  was  in  his  favour.  What  was  a  doctor  ?  Bah  ! 
Simon  had  thrown  away  his  life. 

The  following  Sunday  Warre  was  called  to  the 
North  of  England  for  a  consultation.  He  left  her 
with  great  unwillingness,  but  he  was  to  return  early 
on  Monday  morning ;  he  would  take  the  night  train  ; 
he  would  only  be  absent  about  twenty-four  hours. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said,  "  because  it  is  my  duty." 

"  And  we  really  need  the  money,"  added  Anne. 
"  I  have  a  few  bills,  darling." 

She  kissed  him  twenty  times  good-bye,  shed  a 
few  tears,  and  said  God  bless  you.  She  really  felt  sad 
over  the  parting,  and  it  was  a  certain  happiness  to 
the  poor  man  to  find  that  she  had  need  of  him  ;  that 
he  had  become,  as  it  were,  a  necessary,  not  altogether 
disagreeable,  factor  in  her  daily  existence;  he  was 
her  keeper,  her  tower  of  refuge.  She  would  miss 
him.     And  how  pleasant  it  is  to  be  missed  ! 

"  Remember,"  he  said,  "  that  I  shall  be  thinking 


AND    LORD   WICKEXHAM.  1 8/ 

the  most  charming  things  about  you  all  the  time  I 
am  away." 

"  Will  that  be  hard  work?"  she  asked,  putting  up 
her  hands  to  be  kissed. 

He  looked  at  her  tenderly,  and  she  smiled  like  a 
naughty  child  surprised  by  a  little  praise. 

She  gave  him  his  gloves,  and,  standing  on  tip-toe, 
crowned  him  with  his  hat.  All  her  gestures  had  a 
regal  intention, 

"Dearest,"  she  said,  "aren't  we  funny?" 

As  he  drove  away,  she  stood  at  the  window  wav- 
ing her  handkerchief,  and  crying  in  earnest.  He  was 
the  only  creature  in  the  \vorld  she  honestly  cared 
for ;  the  only  man  she  believed  was  not  wholly  self- 
ish, brutal,  and  mercenary.  It  cost  her  an  effort  to 
control  her  emotion  at  the  thought  that  there  might 
be  some  accident  on  the  railway.  Oh,  if  he  should 
be  killed  !  She  gave  a  little  scream,  and  covered  her 
eyes.  Presently  she  seized  his  photograph  from  the 
mantel-piece,  kissed  it  with  frenzy,  muttering  the 
sweetest  vows  of  affection  and  faith.  And  at  last 
said  : 

"  There  is  no  one  like  you  !  I  love  vou  !  I  adore 
you  !  So  handsome  !  So  kind  !  So  good  !  I  worship 
you,  darling!  My  husband  !  I\fv  prince!  I  wish  you 
were  richer!  I  wisii  you  held  a  better  pcjsition  I 
Pet!     Angel!" 

Then,  feeling  tired,  siie  rang  the  bell,  and  ortiercd 


l88  THE  GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

word  to  be  sent  to  the  stable,  that,  when  the  brough- 
am returned  from  the  station,  she  wished  to  go  for 
a  drive.     She  went  to  Richmond. 

The  day  was  lost  in  fog.  Through  the  leafless 
aisles  of  black,  desolate  trees  in  Hyde  Park  she  could 
only  see  stray  couples  pass  and  disappear  like  the 
figures  in  a  shadow-dance.  Those  who  were  on  the 
foot-path  near  the  carriage  seemed  to  have  gutta- 
percha faces — a  few  twisted  into  a  crazy  grin,  and 
more  convulsed  with  that  hollow  woe  of  a  tragic 
mask.  Sometimes  a  scarlet  coat  shone  out  like  a 
stain  of  bright  blood  in  the  gloom.  The  water  of 
the  Serpentine  could  not  be  seen  at  all ;  its  curves 
were  lost  under  a  wide  and  treacherous  stretch  of 
mist,  profound,  interminable.  Dead  brown  foliage 
lay  scattered  on  the  grass  near  the  road,  but  here 
and  there,  on  a  withered  blade  or  leaf,  the  frost 
shone,  opalescent.  A  soft  line  of  purple  vapour 
seemed  to  sever  these  unexpected  radiant  corners 
from  the  oppressive  atmosphere  around. 

A  lady  with  rouged  cheeks,  pencilled  eyebrows, 
and  dyed  hair,  driving  a  pair  of  piebalds  in  a  Stan- 
hope, dashed  down  the  Row.  She  looked  exultant ; 
she  wore  a  hard  hat  like  a  man's,  and  the  collar  of  her 
overcoat  was  drawn  high  over  her  cars.  How  she 
cracked  her  whip  !  How  swiftly  the  wheels  turned  ! 
How  cold  her  little  groom  looked  in  his  smart  new 
livery  !     A  great  rattle,  a  clatter,  and  she  passed  out 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM. 


189 


of  sight.  Two  stout  old  men  in  a  dog-cart  halted 
at  the  Albert  Memorial ;  one  blew  his  nose ;  one 
yawned  ;  they  could  see  nothing,  and  their  fat  pony 
was  restive.     They  rolled  on. 

In  the  Kensington  High  Street  the  fog  was  less 
dense.  Bells  were  ringing  for  morning  service  at 
St.  Mary  Abbott's ;  many  dim,  respectable  forms 
were  entering  the  porch.  Opposite,  a  woman  who 
coughed,  and  who  carried  a  child  at  her  breast,  was 
selling  violets.  When  Anne  passed  Holland  House 
she  looked  enviously  at  its  gate.  Ah,  why  was  she 
not  a  Lady  Holland  ?  Why  could  she  not  have  a 
salon  ?  For  a  time  she  saw  nothing  on  the  road, 
but  sat  engrossed  in  her  own  bitter  meditations, 
which  were  always  the  same,  and  which  made  her 
feel  as  though  her  heart  were  a  nest  of  serpents.  At 
last  she  looked  up  in  time  to  see  a  young  woman  step 
into  a  hansom  and  smile  as  she  told  the  cabman 
where  to  go. 

"  Ah,"  thought  Anne,  "  she  is  going  to  enjoy  her- 
self!  And  here  am  I,  all  alone!  Why  can't  I  have 
a  little  happiness  ?  " 

O,   those   dingy  little   villas    facing    those    cheap 

shops!      Who    lived     in    them?     A    girl    with    her 

sweetheart  stood  on    the    front   steps   of  one.      She 

looked  contented  enough,  miserable  creature  !    What 

wretched  minds  these  common  people  had,  or  tiiey 

woulfl     never    endure    such     ptnury,    such    a    nar- 
13 


IQO  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

row  outlook !  She  began  to  cry,  but  brightened 
again  when  a  woman  on  Hammersmith  Bridge 
looked  at  her  beauty  and  her  equipage  with  dolorous 
envy.  How  well  she  knew  this  drive  to  Richmond  ! 
Dane  and  she  had  often  dined  at  the  Star  and  Garter ; 
he  dared  not  take  her  to  more  fashionable  haunts, 
and  there  she  used  to  parade  the  extravagant  gowns 
he  considered  it  injudicious  to  display  in  London. 
There,  too,  if  they  met  an  acquaintance,  it  would 
usually  be  in  circumstances  when  no  one  of  the  party 
would  be  likely  to  mention  the  encounter.  Ah ! 
after  all,  she  had  enjoyed  those  days  with  Algernon. 
She  had  made  him  spend  his  money.  She  was  not  a 
woman  like  Sarah,  to  see  how  little  expense  she  could 
be  to  a  man.  That  was  a  fatal  policy.  They  never 
valued  society  which  cost  nothing.  A  group  of 
young  men  were  resting,  with  their  bicycles,  on  the 
road.  They  all  stared  hard  at  Anne,  mistaking  her 
for  some  distinguished  actress.  She  held  her  head 
high  and  struck  a  picturesque  pose. 

When  the  river  appeared  at  Lonsdale  Road,  she 
wondered  why  people  ever  committed  suicide  by 
jumping  into  the  water.  How  cold  !  how  dirty  !  She 
drew  her  fur  rug  higher  over  her  knees,  and  pulled 
her  velvet  mantle  more  close  at  the  throat.  A  few 
yards  ahead  she  saw  a  couple  walking :  the  woman 
was  leaning  with  pathetic  confidence  on  the  man's 
arm.     Anne  looked  well  at  them  :  she  always  studied 


AND    LORD   WICKEXHAM. 


191 


lovers.  The  girl  was  sweet :  she  ought  to  have  been 
in  the  ballet  at  the  Empire — not  wasting  her  time  and 
her  beauty  on  that  frightful  little  clerk,  with  weak 
eyes  and  no  chin !  What  a  hard  world  this  was  for 
pretty  women!  But  who  is  that?  A  gaily-attired 
youth,  with  a  fiower  in  his  button-hole,  drove  past  in 
a  tandem.  He  was  laughing  to  himself.  He  was  in 
love  with  someone.  What  was  she  like?  He,  no 
doubt,  was  going  to  see  her.  Some  of  these  vulgar 
creatures — when  they  happened  to  have  money — got 
a  great  deal  of  amusement  out  of  life.  And  he  was 
not  at  all  bad-looking.  Ah  !  it  was  nice  to  be  expect- 
ing some  fine  young  fellow  to  call  and  take  you  for  a 
drive. 

'•  1  am  getting  very  sick  of  this  kind  of  thing !  " 
she  said  to  herself. 

Richmond  Park  at  last!  It  seemed  more  drear 
than  Lond(jn,  A  few  Cockney  equestrians  were 
cantering  over  the  turf,  but  they  were  so  plain  and 
ungainly  that  Anne  glanced  away,  regardless  of  their 
admiration.  She  told  her  coachman  to  drive  towards 
the  Robin  Hood  (iatc.  The  air  was  chill  and  jicnc- 
trating:  a  few  deer  were  nibbling  the  green:  the 
gaunt  trees,  uncouth  and  many-armed,  looked  in  the 
fog  like  the  black  skeletons  of  deformed  giants.  At- 
mosphere and  sky  were  one  ini])cnctral)le  cloud  : 
the  grass  was  patched  by  clumps  (;f  withered 
ferns. 


ig2  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

She  said  to  herself : 

"  Is  this  life  ?     Where  is  the  fun  ?  " 

She  met  a  number  of  young  men  with  dogs.  The 
women  were  probably  at  church.  Church  was  all 
very  well  .  .  .  sometimes.  Presently  she  got  out 
and  walked.  The  way  towards  Kingston  had  more 
charm  :  the  mist  had  a  bluer  tone ;  the  trees  were 
more  slender,  more  symmetrical,  and  the  green  moss 
round  their  trunks,  sparkling  with  dew,  made  her 
think  of  emeralds  set  in  diamonds. 

The  undulation  in  the  road  was  pleasant:  she 
enjoyed  the  tramp  up  the  hill,  and  began  to  grow 
sentimental  on  the  subject  of  dead  Algernon  and  the 
absent  Warre.  She  tried  to  remember  a  certain 
line  of  Browning's  about  ^^  Never  tJie  time,  the  place, 
and  the  loved  one  being  together,''  and  was  deeply 
touched.  Then  she  re-entered  the  carriage  and 
drove  in  a  sullen  apathy — looking  neither  toward 
the  right  nor  to  the  left — toward  the  Star  and 
Garter. 

As  she  approached  the  building,  her  colour  rose : 
she  scanned  each  window  eagerly.  There  was  no 
one  in  sight.  One  could  see  nothing  of  the  famous 
view :  two  tall,  bare  poplar  trees,  like  the  sentinels 
of  Destiny,  were  all  that  was  conspicuous.  She  felt 
an  unreasonable  disappointment.  Why  had  she  been 
feeling  strange  presentiments  ? 

She  saw  nothing  on  the  way  home,  but  thought 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  I93 

vaguely  of  vague  things.  Once  or  twice  she  thought 
she  must  be  asleep  and  dreaming. 

Was  this  life  ?     Where  was  the  fun  ? 

These  two  questions  were  the  clearest  that  she 
asked  herself  that  day.  She  asked  them  very  often 
and  could  find  no  acceptable  answer. 


194  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

A   PRELUDE. 

Anne  had  ordered  for  her  luncheon  several  costly 
delicacies  and  a  bottle  of  champagne,  because  her 
dear  love  was  away  and  she  felt  so  lonely.  The 
food  and  the  fruit  seemed  delicious ;  the  wine  g-ave 
her  a  languorous  content.  In  the  afternoon  she 
drove  out  again,  dressed  up  in  a  gorgeous  new 
pelisse,  which  was  lined  with  the  richest  brocade 
and  trimmed  with  ermine.  Her  little  bonnet  was 
made  of  ermine,  too,  and  had  a  green  parrot's  wing, 
studded  with  red  glass  rubies,  on  either  side.  She 
was  proud  of  her  brilliant  complexion  and  wore  no 
veil.  She  had  added  three  false  coils  to  her  already 
abundant  hair.  Everyone  stared  as  her  carriage 
rolled  by. 

In  Bond  Street  she  saw  a  man  whom  she  knew. 
She  had  made  his  acquaintance  at  a  City  dinner 
where  she  had  sung,  the  year  before.  He  had  asked 
to  be  presented  to  her  on  that  occasion,  and  had 
shown  a  disposition   to   encourage   art.     He  was  a 


AND   LORD   WICKEMIAM. 


195 


rich  Australian.  Should  she  bow  now  ?  Their 
glance  met.  He  at  once  motioned  to  her  coachman 
to  stop.     Anne  smiled  at  his  audacity. 

He  was  a  man  of  that  dashing  type,  which, 
secretly,  she  most  admired.  He  was  tall;  he  had 
bold  eyes ;  his  clothes  were  like  those  of  a  fashion- 
able comedian  in  the  character  of  a  Captain  in  the 
Guards.  Lifting  his  glistening  hat,  he  displayed  a 
fine  picturesque  head  and  Hyperion  curls.  He  took 
her  hand. 

"  Ah  I  "  he  murmured,  with  a  meaning  smile, 
"  why  did  you  not  write  that  time — as  you  prom- 
ised ?  " 

"  You  see,"  she  answered,  "  I  married  !  " 

He  was  amazed.  His  look  had  said,  as  he  sur- 
veyed her  carriage,  "  I  was  fully  prepared  to  provide 
for  you  quite  as  handsomely." 

"Didn't  you  see  it  in  the  papers?"  she  asked. 
"  But  perhaps  you  only  know  my  professional  ikiuic. 
My  father  is  Sir  Hugh  Delaware.  My  husband  is 
Dr.  Warrc." 

"Well,  1  never  I"  ejaculated  her  friend.  "I  am 
sure  I  congratulate  you.  Sii-  lluLrh  Dcla\v;ii-e  !  And 
Warre — that's  the  swell  on  parahsis.  lie  has  cured 
one  or  two  of  my  directors  !  Sir  Hugh  Delaware! 
What  a  world  it  is!  Fancy  meeting  you  here  after 
all  these  months!  Talk  about  Fate!  When  can  I 
call  anfl  sec  you  ?  " 


iq6  the  gods,  some  mortals, 

She  had  not  intended  this.  He  was  not  an  ac- 
quaintance she  wished  to  encourage ;  he  was  not 
in  a  good  set ;  he  had  a  common  accent.  But 
then  he  was  enormously  rich :  was  married  and 
had  four  children.  What  could  be  more  re- 
spectable ? 

"How  is  Mrs.  Lumley  Savage?"  she  asked, 
kindly. 

He  pulled  a  mournful  face. 

"  Ah,  my  poor  wife  !  "  he  said.  "  She  has  always 
been  delicate  since  our  first  boy  was  born,  and  the 
last  has  destroyed  her  nerves  altogether.  We  are 
extremely  anxious  about  her  health." 

"  I  must  call  on  her,"  said  Anne,  with  regal 
graciousness. 

"  Do.  She  is  always  at  home.  She  misses  the 
Australian  climate.  .  .  .  But  where  do  you  hang 
out  ?     Will  you  be  in  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"  My  husband  is  away,"  murmured  Anne. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  cried  the  gallant,  with  a 
grin.  "  I  am  not  coming  to  talk  science !  Shall  we 
say  five  o'clock  ?  " 

She  nodded  her  head  and  stifled  a  laugh  in  her 
muff.  Savage  coloured  red  from  the  force  of  his  ad- 
miration for  her  blue  eyes.  They  rebuked  .  .  .  chal- 
lenged .  .  .  surrendered  .  .  .  and  defied  in  one  deep 
twinkle. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  said  he. 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  I97 

She  put  down  her  muff  and  looked  as  demure  as 
his  own  little  girl,  aged  four. 

"  At  five,"  repeated  Anne. 

She  bowed.  He  stepped  back.  The  coachman 
drove  on. 


IC)8  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE   UNLOVELY. 

Warre  returned  on  the  morrow  by  a  later  train 
than  the  one  he  had  named  on  leaving,  and  Anne 
walked,  muttering,  from  room  to  room,  awaiting  his 
arrival.  When  he  came  she  ran  to  meet  him  in  the 
hall,  and,  as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  screamed  re- 
proaches. What  did  this  mean  ?  Why  had  he  not 
kept  his  word  ?  Who  believed  telegrams?  Did  he 
think  she  was  a  fool  ?  She  followed  him  into  his 
study. 

She  was  not  dressed  so  carefully  as  usual,  but 
looked  a  slattern  in  an  old  red  velvet  gown  she 
sometimes  wore  when  she  was  not  at  home  to  call- 
ers, or  when  she  practised.  Her  face,  distorted  by 
anger,  resembled  nothing  human  ;  she  had  tangled 
her  hair  into  a  mad  disorder  ;  and  her  eyes,  strug- 
gling in  their  sockets,  darted  wildly  from  side  to 
side  like  strange  living  things  of  some  existence 
separate  from  her  own.  She  was  horrible  to 
look  at. 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


199 


Warre  picked  up  his  letters  ;  she  snatched  them 
from  his  hand. 

"  Put  them  down  I  "  she  said.  "  Listen  to  me  !  1 
will  be  treated  with  respect ! " 

She  shouted ;  she  swore  ;  her  words  were  fra- 
grant with  brandy.  Warre  wondered  whether  Al- 
gernon Dane  could  have  taught  her  the  language  she 
used  ;  he  had  talked  the  slang  of  third-rate  debauchees 
— a  jargon  which  is  often  nasty,  but  never  robust. 

"  How  did  you  spend  the  time  yesterday  ? "  asked 
Simon. 

She  had  been  for  a  drive.  In  the  evening  she 
had  attended  service  at  Westminster  Abbey.  After 
church  she  had  gone  to  supper  at  the  Savoy — with 
some  old  friends. 

"  Who  were  they  ?  " 

He  had  never  heard  her  speak  of  them.  They 
were  rich  Colonials — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lumley  Savage. 
The  wife  was  consumptive,  poor  thing,  and  had  four 
lovely  children.  The  husband — OI  he  was  a  bore! 
But  why  all  these  cjuestions  ?  She  was  not  in  the 
witness-box  I  Perhaps  he  had  better  have  her 
watched  by  a  detective.  No  doubt,  he  had  already 
taken  that  precaution.  Saintly  men  and  invalid 
wives  were  usually  sneaks  and  spies.  With  an 
atrocious  laugh,  she  drummed  a  tattoo  on  the  tabic. 
What  did  she  care?  What  did  il  matter?  She  con- 
tinued her  abuse. 


200  THE    GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

The  servants,  with  white  looks,  stood  on  the 
kitchen  stair-case  to  listen.  In  the  end,  Anne  feigned 
a  swoon  and  sank  on  the  floor.  Warre  waited  for 
her  restoration  to  consciousness  and  endured  her  re- 
lapse into  maudlin  remorse  and  hysterical  affection. 
A  suspicion  so  horrible  possessed  him  that  he  dared 
not  trust  himself  to  ask  her  more  about  the  yester- 
day. 

She  sang  ballads  all  that  evening  and  called  him 
unsympathetic,  because  he  did  not  seem  to  enjoy 
her  rendering  of  a  song  set  to  some  lines  by  Swin- 
burne : 

"  Let  come  what  will,  there  is  one  thing  worth. 
To  have  had  fair  love  in  the  life  upon  earth ; 
To  have  held  love  safe  till  the  day  grew  night, 
While  skies  had  colour  and  lips  were  red." 

From  that  time  forth,  Anne  apparently  made  no  at- 
tempt at  self-control.  She  grew  slovenly,  yet  more 
extravagant ;  bolder  in  her  lies,  and  more  regular  in 
her  attendance  at  church  ;  more  plausible  in  the 
world,  and  more  shameless  at  home  ;  every  day  she 
indulged  in  some  wild  burst  of  temper ;  she  was  too 
passionate  to  be  a  mere  shrew — her  wrath  was  like  a 
stage  storm — violent  and  abrupt,  heralded  by  moon- 
light and  immediately  followed  by  the  noon-day  sun. 
The  servants  dreaded  her  step  ;  Warre  suffocated  in 
her  presence  ;  the  house  was  a  hell.  Sarah  now 
called  rarely,  as  she  was  much  engrossed  with  the 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  20I 

affairs  of  a  hospital  which  she  was  having  built  at 
Ventnor  in  memory  of  Algernon  Dane.  Anne,  no 
longer  ambitious,  collected  together  a  group  of 
friends  who  only  lived  to  be  seen  at  the  Savoy  and 
have  it  rumoured  that  someone  paid  their  bills. 
How  gorgeously  they  dressed  !  How  loudly  they 
laughed  !  And  the  women  wore  Court  coiffures  in 
the  style  which  is  inseparably  associated  with  the 
Royal  House  in  England.  It  was  a  world  of  Chris- 
tian names  and  Pagan  nakedness.  Mrs.  Lumley 
Savage  played  the  part  of  blind  poodle,  and  followed 
Anne  with  servile  assiduity.  She  was  a  silly,  vain, 
vulgar,  but  harmless  little  creature,  who  felt  aristo- 
cratic sensations  thrill  through  her  moral  being 
whenever  she  remembered  that  Mrs.  Warre  was  the 
daughter  of  a  baronet.  She  experienced  an  agree- 
able awe  in  Anne's  society  ;  copied  her  insolent  man- 
ners, her  gaudy  clothes,  her  large  handwriting,  her 
bouncing  gait,  and,  when  they  were  in  places  of 
amusement  together,  they  talked,  in  languid  but  far- 
reaching  tones,  of  Tom,  not  the  Duke  of  Drawne  but 
the  Duke  of  Daleham,  and  poor  Mary,  who  would  marry 
Lord  de  Trappe.  They  often  went  shopping  together, 
and  then  they  found  it  a  great  pleasure  to  be  stared 
at  by  admiring  footmen  on  the  steps  of  Marshall  »Sl 
Snclgrove's.  Warre  could  rarely  spare  his  brougham 
in  the  afternoon,  so  Anne  always  used  "Nellie's" 
carriage,  which  was  yellow,  and  lined  with  satin  and 


202  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

swung  on  C-springs.  There  were  numerous  brass 
ornaments,  like  coronets,  on  the  harness,  and  the 
horses — who  stepped  so  high  that  it  took  them  an 
hour  to  get  round  the  park — wore  bearing-reins  and 
ribbon  rosettes.  They  looked  like  circus  steeds,  and 
were  rich  in  foam  and  froth  ;  they  had  been  trained 
to  rear,  to  plunge,  to  toss  their  heads  and  paw  the 
ground.  When  Anne  was  in  a  great  hurry  she  al- 
most preferred  a  hansom.  Lumley  Savage  himself 
never  came  to  Grosvenor  Street ;  Anne  explained 
that  he  was  not  a  person  who  cared  for  society.  He 
was  a  man's  man — a  company  promoter  or  something — 
and  entertained  great  City  princes  at  a  house  in 
Portman  Square  which  he  had  hired,  furnished,  for 
that  purpose.  His  wife  was  always  considered  too 
great  an  invalid  to  appear  on  these  occasions  :  she 
preferred  to  be  seen  at  Mrs.  Warre's,  reclining  on  a 
sofa  and  smiling  at  an  endless  train  of  politicians  not 
in  Parliament ;  musicians  who  could  not  play,  writers 
who  never  wrote,  and  handsome  bachelors  who  never 
married.  Yet  Anne's  conduct  was,  in  many  respects, 
irreproachable.  She  never  flirted.  It  was  owned 
that  of  all  young  married  women,  she  was  the  most 
discreet  with  her  admirers.  She  was  considered 
vain,  but  virtuous. 

Ten  months  passed.  As  sailors  drink  sea-water 
to  cure  their  nausea,  Warre  read  the  ugliest  litera- 
ture, took   his   exercise   in    the   dirtiest   slums,   and 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  203 

brooded  on  the  most  repulsive  aspects  of  disease. 
Refinements  of  language  jarred  on  his  disappointed 
ears :  the  obscene  song  which  a  boy  had  sung  under 
his  window,  on  the  day  of  his  fatal  marriage,  seemed 
the  one  great  psalm  in  existence.  C),  had  the  time 
gone  for  ever  when  he  could  step  out  and  say,  in 
homely,  uninspired  commonplace : 

"  The  day  is  clear,  the  sky  is  blue,  the  flowers  smell  sweet ! " 

When  it  was  dark,  he  would  sometimes  steal  into 
the  Catholic  Church  in  Farm  Street,  and  rest  there 
undisturbed.  He  used  to  sit  near  the  altar  of  Our 
Lady  of  Lourdes,  where  he  could  see,  at  the  end  of 
the  aisle,  another  altar  and  the  pendant  lamps  before 
it.  The  odour  of  flowers,  incense,  melting  wax,  and 
that  something  else  like  the  scent  of  goodly  fruit 
stored  away  for  the  hungry  winter,  gave  him  a  wel- 
come. He  felt  that  he  was  in  some  way  expected, 
that  his  place  was  set  ready  ;  that  there  were  loving 
friends  on  every  side  who  had  been  waiting,  watch- 
ing, longing  for  his  approach.  And  while  he  could 
stay  there,  in  his  small,  unmolested  corner,  it  seemed 
that  neither  sorrow  nor  pain,  hopes  overthrown  nor 
miseries  multij)lied,  could  ever  harm  him  more. 
The  little  silver  hearts  which  lumg  in  a  case  by  the 
altar  had  each  some  story  to  !(  11  of  ;i  f.iithful  vow. 
And  should  he  be  faithless  !  He  forgot  his  own  nar- 
row grief  as   he   mused    on   the    great  sufferings  of 


204  THE   GODS,   SOME   MORTALS, 

men,  who,  if  human  joys  were  given  to  truth  and 
honour,  deserved  every  perfect  gift.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  his  own  aims  had  been  common  and  selfish  ; 
he  felt  an  ineffable  humiliation  before  the  symbols  of 
martyrdom  which  gave  the  walls  of  that  sacred  place 
a  vivid  pathos.  His  ways  were  pure  because  his  na- 
ture was  chivalrous,  but  his  life  was  worldly :  his 
youthful  ambition  had  been  to  make  money  and 
fame,  to  marry  a  beautiful  wife ;  he  had  loved  pass- 
ing well  the  pleasures  of  earth,  fair  women,  wealth, 
and  the  luxuries  wealth  alone  can  promise.  How 
much  had  he  done  or  endured  just  for  righteousness' 
sake? 

The  peace  Warre  found  in  these  exalted  moments 
at  church  only  made  his  own  hearth  seem  a  more 
sordid  reality — a  wilder  disillusion.  We  do  not 
think  of  our  deserts,  but  of  our  unfulfilled  desires, 
when  existence  looks  desolate. 

He  decided  that  it  was  not  suicide  to  perish  from 
overwork.  He  undertook  the  duties  of  two  men 
and  performed  them  with  the  energy  of  three.  His 
colleagues  often  named  his  probable  successor.  He 
was  not  yet  thirty,  and  he  looked  old.  He  began 
to  stoop :  his  tread  was  swift — not  with  eagerness 
— but  with  the  desperation  of  a  hunted  creature. 
What  was  the  matter  with  Warre  ?  Did  he  ever 
laugh  now?  ever  sleep?  ever  rest?  how  long  could 
he   last?     Women    said    that    he    was   wretched   at 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  20$ 

home :  some  of  them  tried  to  make  his  existence 
happier  by  blushing  into  it.  More  than  one  pretty 
romantic  soul  gave  him  glances  which  would  have 
melted  an  anchorite.  But  had  he  cared  for  the  con- 
solations of  patchouli,  was  not  Anne  herself  the  fair- 
est of  false  lights  o'  love  ?  And  he  still  possessed 
some  influence  over  her  heart:  corrupt  as  she  was, 
she  would  have  been  baser  without  him.  She  had 
woven  fear,  love  and  hatred  into  one  dense  passion, 
which,  had  he  loved  her  in  return,  would  soon  have 
become  hate  only. 


T4 


2o6  'l'"E   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

WICKENHAM. 

One  day  in  December,  Simon  received  a  letter 
from  Wickenham.  It  was  dated  from  the  English 
Embassy  at  Rome,  where  he  was  a  guest.  Anne 
looked  over  Warre's  shoulder  as  he  read  it  and 
clapped  her  hands. 

"  So  he  is  coming  to  town  at  last,"  she  said. 
"  Now  we  shall  see  a  change!  But  what  a  year  I 
have  spent !  I  am  sure  I  deserve  a  little  amuse- 
ment !  If  you  observe  the  workings  of  Providence, 
you  will  generally  find  them  fair." 

Her  ambition  revived  ;  she  began  to  hate  Mrs. 
Lumley  Savage. 

The  day  his  lordship  called,  Anne  received  him 
in  the  drawing-room,  where  she  sat  with  a  crystal 
vase  of  orchids  on  the  table  by  her  side,  and,  behind 
her  head,  a  cushion  embroidered  with  peacock's 
feathers.  Her  gown  was  of  silk  the  colour  of  honey, 
and  worked  with  beads  which  looked  like  precious 
stones  :  the  belt  glittered  with  arrows  and  serpents, 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  20/ 

Stars  and  crescents,  turquoise,  opal,  and  amethyst 
pins  and  clasps.  Rings  shone  on  her  fingers  and  a 
comb  of  paste  diamonds  in  her  hair.  Warre  had  not 
yet  returned  from  the  hospital.  She  told  Wicken- 
ham  about  her  social  disappointments  with  a  naive 
and  childish  petulance  which  amused  him.  He 
thought  her  silly  yet  beautiful,  and  felt  that  she  was, 
on  the  whole,  a  victim  to  feminine  malice. 

"Saxon  women,"  he  said,  "  are  very  good  to  their 
men,  but  they  are  brutal  to  each  other." 

She  fell  into  that  familiar  tone  which  members  of 
the  same  caste,  calling,  or  family  instinctively  adopt 
when  they  are  alone  together. 

"  Make  them  nice  to  me,"  she  said,  with  tears  in 
her  voice.  "  I  do  so  want  to  be  liked  !  My  disposi- 
tion is  friendly.  I  love  the  life  of  show  and  hospi- 
tality :  I  was  born  for  it.  The  wife  of  a  professional 
man  cannot  be  foolishly  exclusive  :  I  have  to  enter- 
tain many  people  whom  I  could  scarcely  ask  even 
my  own  relatives  to  meet !  I  think  it  most  unjust, 
however,  for  my  set  to  abandon  me  merely  because  I 
have  to  be  civil — in  my  husband's  interest — to  out- 
siders. Simon  says  nothing,  but,  I  assure  you,  he 
feels  it  deeply.  His  pride  is  hurt  :  the  unkindncss  I 
have  received  has  made  him  ill.  You  will  sec  the 
change  in  him  at  once.  I  am  so  anxious  .  .  .  about 
his  health." 

Her   lips   quivered:    one    little    fcjot,    in    its    lace 


2o8  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

Stocking  and  golden  slipper  nervously  tapped    the 
ground. 

"Could  I  speak  like  this?"  she  said,  "could  I 
mention  these  slights  ...  if  I  were  not  driven  to  it 
by  worry?  After  all,  what  do  I  care  for  society? 
Of  course,  it  is  pleasant  to  meet  refined  and  cultured 
minds — to  associate  with  one's  equals.  I  am  young, 
too.  Is  it  a  crime  to  enjoy  a  dance  or  a  dinner  with 
men  and  women  who  take  my  point  of  view  for 
granted  :  who  think,  feel,  and  believe  as  I  do  ?  I  get 
so  tired  of  explaining  life  to  middle-class  intellects  ! 
I  always  feel  as  though  I  talked  Greek,  and  they 
only  knew  Dutch,  and  we  were  trying  to  sing  a 
French  duet !  Yet  I  could  bear  isolation,  ennui,  any- 
thing, if  only  Simon  would  look  happy.  But  he  does 
not.  It  is  his  nature  to  feel  more  for  others  than 
they  feel  for  themselves.  For  every  scratch  I  have 
been  given  he  has  two  scars !  He  seems  to  think 
that  I  resigned  a — a  brilliant  future  to  marry  him. 
But  what  did  it  matter  to  me  what  his  position  was? 
or  his  family?  or  his  mother's  unfortunate  m6salli- 
ance  ?  My  parents,  certainly,  disapproved  of  my 
marriage :  Mama  is  old-fashioned — she  is  a  true 
Pavenham.  She  cannot  forget  the  uncle  who  has  a 
draper's  shop.  Have  you  ever  seen  him?  Is  he 
hopeless?  I  am  so  glad  that  he  lives  at  Scarbor- 
ough !  " 

"  I    have    met    him,"    said    Wickenham,   gruffly. 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


209 


"  He  is  a  quiet,  unpretentious  sort  of  fellow  .  .  . 
certainly  presentable.  But  in  any  case  I  should  stick 
up  for  him  because  he  has  behaved  so  awfully  well 
to  Warre  !  " 

Anne  leant  forward,  with  a  flattering  and  eager 
admiration  in  her  regard. 

"  Ah  I  "  she  cried,  "  if  all  men  and  women  were  as 
generous  as  you  and  my  dear  Simon  !  But  they  are 
not :  they  make  the  most  ill-natured  remarks." 

"  What  can  it  matter  what  a  cad  thinks  ?  "  said  his 
lordship.  "  I  never  trouble  about  'em.  Let  'em  say 
what  the)'  like  about  Warre  or  Warre's  uncle.  The 
only  people  who  listen  to  'em  are  other  cads.  No 
friend  of  mine  has  ever  even  mentioned  the — the 
Scarborough  relative.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
can't  be  called  a  regular  shopkeeper.  The  shop  is 
so  large  !  It's  almost  wholesale.  I  should  be  very 
glad  if  one  of  my  Irish  cousins  could — could  get 
hold  of  something  half  as  good.  I  shouldn't  mind  a 
bit.  Lord  Blarney,  my  mother's  nephew,  sells  mut- 
ton— thin,  stringy  stuff — and  he  can't  make  it  pay. 
My  housekeeper  makes  an  awful  row  when  I  ask  her 
to  get  her  meat  from  Blarney.  But  you  must  be 
loyal  to  your  (jwn  I  "  lie  gave  her  an  odd  glance 
as  he  spoke. 

"  I  wish,"  she  said,  prettily,  "  I  had  always  known 
someone  who  could  .  .  .  scold  me  .  .  .  like  this  .  .  . 
and  make  mc  feel  a  mean,  sickly  little  snob." 


2IO  IHE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

With  a  bewitching  gesture  she  covered  her  rosy 
cheeks  with  her  two  white  hands.  Wickenham 
wished  to  dislike  her,  but  could  not.  He  had  heard 
about  her  vulgarity,  her  extravagant  frocks,  her  loud 
style,  her  fast  companions,  from  the  Duchess  of  Wark 
and  other  lady  friends.  He  saw  why  few  women 
would  care  for  her.  He  felt  that  no  man  could  find 
it  possible  to  judge  her  severely.  She  had  irresisti- 
ble charms.  True,  her  gown  was  startling,  but  the 
whole  effect  was  picturesque  and  oriental.  Possibly 
one  would  not  like  one's  wife  to  look  so — brilliant, 
but  that  was  a  personal  fad.     It  went  for  nothing. 

"  I  have  not  scolded  you  !  "  he  replied. 

"  You  spoke  from  your  heart." 

"  I  really  forget  what  I  said.  Wasn't  it  some- 
thing about  Blarney's  mutton?" 

"  You  have  helped  me  so  much — made  so  much 
that  was  difficult,  easy  !  " 

"  Good  Lord  !  "  he  ejaculated. 

He  looked  about  him,  and  then  said,  gravely : 

"  How  does  Wiggin  answer  as  a  footman  ?  " 

Wiggin  was  the  son  of  one  of  his  pensioners  at 
Weyborough.  He  asked  fatherly  questions  about 
this  youth  till  Warre  came  in. 

Anne  left  the  two  friends  together. 

They  seemed  to  have  little  to  add  after  the  first 
common  questions  had  been  warmly  asked  and  re- 
plied   to,    but,    with    furtive,    curious   glances,   each 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  21I 

scanned  the  other's  face.  Both  men  had  changed 
since  their  last  meeting.  Warre  was  still  handsome : 
his  eyes  still  shone  with  their  peculiar  piercing  bril- 
liancy. He  had  aged,  however,  and  was  sallow  ;  his 
mouth  wore  the  hard  bit  of  a  continual  self-restraint. 
Wickenham  looked  well :  the  breezy  air  of  patrician 
indifference  which  had  once  kept  his  humanity  too 
cool  had  now  more  of  the  sun  and  less  of  the  world 
and  its  dust :  his  innate  kindness  had  mellowed  into 
courteousness :  his  innate  seriousness,  into  a  glad 
serenity. 

"  I  wonder  you  left  the  South,"  said  Warre,  at 
last :  "  it  is  such  a  bad  time  to  come  back.  How 
long  were  you  in  Rome?  " 

"  Three  weeks.  Shanklin  makes  an  excellent 
Ambassador,  and  Lady  Shanklin  is  delightful.  But 
then  her  great-grandmother  was  not  English  :  that  is 
why  she  understands  that  a  grande  dame  should  be 
distinguished  for  small  talk !  I  am  not  very  keen 
about  our  Northern  women.  They  arc  so  bleak. 
They  can  bow  down  to  a  superior  and  be  gracious 
with  the  poor,  but  there  is  not  one  in  a  hundred  who 
knows  how  to  behave  towards  her  equals.  It  is  a 
touch  of  the  gypsy — a  drop  of  alien  blood,  or  a  hint 
of  the  Celt— that  tells  !  " 

Warre  sighed.     Wickenham  continued  : 

"  Your  friciul,  Count  Vendramini,  dined  with  us 
several  times.     He  spoke  rather  coldly  of  you,  and 


212  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

said  you  had  not  written  once  since  your  marriage. 
How's  that?  I  suppose  you  have  had  so  much  to 
do.  He  saw  your  signature  attached  to  all  the  Duke 
of  Hothenstein's  bulletins,  so  he  knew  you  were 
alive !  Vendramini's  daughter,"  he  added,  in  an- 
other tone,  "  is  considered  one  of  the  Roman  beau- 
ties. She  refused  Prince  Alberoni  last  month,  I 
admire  her  spirit.  It  would  have  been  a  brilliant 
marriage — considered  socially — for  any  woman.  But 
she  is  unlike  others  ...  I  should  not  have  left  Rome 
if  she  had  not  been  leaving  it  too,  this  week." 

He  paused.  His  lordship  was  not  a  man  to  be- 
tray his  thoughts  when  he  wished  to  conceal  them. 
He  spoke  now  with  a  marked  deliberation. 

"  She  is  coming  to  spend  the  winter  in  London 
with  her  god-mother,  Lady  Ralston  of  Braddyck. 
She  lives  at  Morne  House,  near  Kew." 

He  stood  up,  walked  away,  and  came  back  again. 

"  I  am  not  sentimental,  as  you  know,"  said  he, 
"  but  I  feel  as  though  all  my  happiness  depended  on 
...  on  someone  else.     I  am  awfully  hard  hit !  " 

It  was  growing  dark :  Wickenham  could  not  see 
the  pallor  of  Warre's  face.  And  he  was  pale  him- 
self from  striving  to  speak  without  passion  of  this 
new  so  passionate  interest  in  life. 

"  I  am  awfully  hard  hit  !  "  he  said  again,  "  I  won- 
der why  you  never  mentioned  her.  She  is  so  beauti- 
ful." 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


213 


"  As  I  remember  her,"  said  Warre,  like  one  in  a 
dream,  "she  had  dark  hair  and  eyes." 

"  Black  hair  and  large  brown  eyes." 

"  Her  features  were  delicate." 

"Sweet!" 

"  Is  her  face  a  shade  too  pale  ? " 

"  It  is  like  a  magnolia." 

"  I  thought  her  a  little  too  slight." 

"  Would  you  have  a  girl  of  nineteen  look  like  one 
of  Rubens's  wives  ?  " 

"  She  was  very  shy  !  " 

"  I  love  her  modesty.  Oh,  Warre,  she  is  the  only 
woman  I  can  marry  !  If  she  says  No  to  me — and 
why  should  she  say  Yes? — I  shall  never  think  of 
anyone  else.  1  should  not  even  feel  tempted  to  think 
of  anyone  else.  That  is  always  the  way  when  you 
meet  the  one  true  queen.  Even  if  she  passes  you  by, 
you  can  never  again  be  happy  with  mere  usurpers. 
I'm  a  loyal  subject,  Simon.  I  serve  but  one  mis- 
tress, and  she  must  be  the  king's  daughter!  Do 
you  remember  our  old  talks  ?  " 

"IIo!  ho!"  laughed  Warre.  "Ha!  ha!  We 
were  philosophers  in  those  days.  I  was  the  Stoic 
and  you,  '  the  wiser  Epicurean.'  We  read  Plato,  and 
Homer,  and  Newman,  and  Rabelais,  and  Montaigne, 
and  a  fine  nourishing  soup  we  made  of  them  all  ! 
What  have  we  7wt  read,  you  and  I  ?  And  what  has 
it  done  for  us,  Wick?     I  am  jiatching  dead  lives  and 


214  "^^^^   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

you  want  to  marry  a  wife  !  Ho !  ho  !  ha  !  ha !  the 
man  in  the  street  has  a  better  time  than  either 
of  us." 

The  servant  entered  with  the  tea-things  and 
spread  out  upon  a  table  fantastic  porcelain  cups  of 
richest  gilt.  The  tray  was  of  beaten  copper ;  the 
little  kettle,  of  silver  picked  out  with  brass;  the 
small  tea-pot,  the  jug  for  the  cream,  and  the  bowl 
which  held  the  sugar  were  each  of  gold,  enamelled 
with  strange  designs  in  crimson  and  green. 

When  these  were  arranged,  the  man  drew  the 
violet  silk  curtains  across  the  window,  and  set  a  low 
chair  of  quaintly-carved  ivory  and  bright  purple 
cushions  for  Anne.  How  unreal,  unsubstantial, 
brittle  it  all  seemed!  Was  it  a  scene  that  could 
last  ?  Must  it  not  perish  soon,  and  fade  away 
utterly  like  a  vision  in  the  night?  Would  the  silk 
bear  the  dust  of  one  year  ?  Would  those  toys — 
those  trifles  in  silver  and  gold — endure  even  water 
too  hot,  or  a  hand  less  light  than  Anne's  ? 

The  wind  howled  through  the  house  with  a  thrill- 
ing grief ;  and,  in  response,  the  woodwork  seemed 
to  murmur  its  remembrance  of  forest-sounds.  The 
room  was  surely  filled  with  creeping  things  which 
hissed,  flying  things  which  stung,  faces  which  leered 
and  mocked,  bats'  wings,  and  the  hoot  of  owls. 

The  door  opened.     Anne  came  in. 

"How  dark  it  is!"   she   exclaimed,  and    as  she 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM,  215 

spoke  turned  light  into  the  many  opal  lamps  which 
hung  on  the  wall. 

She  made  the  tea  ;  she  talked.  Lord  Wickenham 
thought  her  good  company.  They  did  not  miss 
Warre's  voice  ;  he  sat  back  in  his  corner,  thinking, 
and  was  silent. 

He  had  always  told  himself  that  Allegra  must 
marry ;  but  now  that  the  possibility  looked  so  cer- 
tain, all  that  was  human  in  his  affection  for  her  arose. 
Jealousy  gnawed  at  his  heart  with  cruel  fangs,  and 
life  seemed  to  beat  upon  his  soul,  like  those  harsh 
waves,  which,  on  a  rocky  coast,  bear  a  burden  of 
blinding  sand  and  small  sharp  stones.  He  was  cold 
—ice-cold  from  head  to  foot,  and  when  he  held  out 
his  hands  to  the  blazing  coal,  he  only  caught  what 
seemed  the  North  wind  breathing  down  the  chim- 
ney. The  fire  was  as  chill  as  the  glitter  of  Anne's 
jewels. 

To  meet  Allegra  face  to  face  again  ;  he  not  free, 
and  she  perhaps  loving  another.  What  anguish  on 
earth  could  be  so  cruel  as  that  ?  The  day  had  long 
passed  when  he  could  smile  in  bitter  self-contempt 
at  this  one  romantic  passion  in  his  history.  Absence, 
distance,  and  the  hopelessness  of  it  all  had  only  lifted 
it  higher  than  common  things,  till,  like  a  spirit  set 
free  from  the  cage  of  the  world,  it  flew  on  unwearied 
pinions  through  endless  sky,  and,  because  unwearied, 
seeking  no  rest— no  final  halting-place.     On,  on  for 


2i6  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

ever  :  more  than  content  with  its  gift  of  perpetual 
energy — its  perpetual  release  from  the  sorrow  which 
makes  happiness  look  too  tempting,  and  from  the 
happiness,  which,  once  tasted,  gives  every  sorrow 
the  flavour  of  a  death  potion. 

But  Warre  was  a  man,  and  young ;  he  had  too 
strong  and  too  intense  a  nature  to  meet  AUegra  day 
by  day  and  maintain  self-mastery.  Would  the  hope- 
lessness always  seem  so  hopeless  ?  Would  the  bar- 
rier between  them  look  so  dense  when  hand  touched 
hand  ?  Would  her  eyes,  as  he  drew  near,  be  less 
like  clouds  of  night  and  more  like  those  of  a  woman 
he  dearly  loved  ?  He  feared  the  ordeal  before  hand. 
There  must  be  no  love  in  his  life — no  wife.  But 
work,  and  only  work,  until  the  end.  How  hard  to 
remember  that  at  nine-and-twenty  ! 

Anne  went  to  the  piano.  She  played  well  when 
music  was  the  only  possible  outlet  for  her  emotions. 
She  began  to  strike  out  chords  which  Warre  had 
never  heard  before.  Then  they  broke,  like  waves 
within  waves,  into  melodies  and  counter-melodies. 
And  as  he  listened,  he  thought  of  meadows  where 
lovely  flowers  grew  and  of  sunshiny  orchards ;  gar- 
dens where  young  girls  were  laughing,  chatting, 
dancing,  pelting  each  other  with  primrose  balls  in 
the  moonlight ;  knights  in  armour  rushed  past  him 
on  white  horses,  and  he  met  Death,  who  was  grave, 
with  folded  wings  ;    and   he    met   Youth,   who  was 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


217 


cross-gftrtered,  tall,  and  comely,  who  sucked  an 
orange  while  he  read  his  lesson-book  ;  and  he  met 
Love,  whose  feet  were  white  and  spotless,  though  the 
road  was  black  with  mire,  and  whose  face  was  like 
the  dawn,  although  the  evening  was  come.  The 
wind  !  how  it  moaned  !  And  the  rain  never  ceased  ! 
Mist,  darkness,  and  yet  a  choir  chanting  in  the  dis- 
tance ;  the  odour  of  incense  and  the  sweet  breath  of 
pure  air  and  Spring;  the  little  laugh  of  water  when 
it  strikes  a  pebbly  shore  ;  the  thrill  of  a  brook  run- 
ning through  fields  to  the  sea  ;  the  sound  of  many 
wings  in  the  air,  and  then — Anne  singing : — 

"  Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 

Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  ; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done. 

Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages  ; 
Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 
As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

"  Fear  no  more  the  frown  0'  the  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke ; 
Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat ; 

To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak  : 
The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

_"  Fear  no  more  the  lij^ditning-flash. 

Nor  the  ail-drcaded  tiiuiidcr-stone  : 
Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash  ; 

Thou  hast  finish'd  joy  and  moan  : 
All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 
Consign  to  thcc,  and  come  to  dust." 


2i8  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

THE   UNSPOKEN. 

Three  days  later  AUegra  arrived  in  London. 
Anne  was  disappointed  in  the  fit  of  a  new  cloak, 
and,  affecting  a  nervous  headache,  made  that  an  ex- 
cuse for  not  accompanying  Warre  when  he  called  at 
Lady  Ralston's.  He  was  sorry.  The  dreaded  meet- 
ing would  have  been  less  dangerous — if  more  humil- 
iating in  Anne's  presence.  Had  it  been  possible  he 
would  have  avoided  the  renewal — which  politeness 
now  made  obligatory — of  his  friendship  with  Count 
Vendramini's  daughter.  She  rested  in  his  memory 
like  one  whom  he  had  passionately  loved,  but  who 
no  longer  lived,  and  for  whose  loss  he  had  spent  the 
uttermost  that  was  human  and  could  suffer  in  his 
nature.  If,  after  many  years,  the  dead  we  have 
broken  our  hearts  for  could  return  to  us — what 
should  we  say  to  them?  What  should  we  offer? 
Words  which  are  only  sounds,  the  arid  stain  of  tears 
once  shed,  a  teeming  love  drilled  into  a  barren  mis- 
ery, arms  which  have  clasped  thin  air  too  long  to 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


219 


know  how  to  embrace  a  friend.     "  Go   back,"  one 
would  say,  "go  back!     I  have  forgotten  how  to  be 
glad.     I  cannot  welcome  ye ;  I  have  nothing  to  say 
to  ye."     And  perhaps  they  would  leave  us,  and,  as 
they  disappeared  again   from   our    blind    sight,    we 
should  feel  again  in  our  inanimate  lives  the  old  ache 
and   agony,   the   torturing    pulse    of    human    grief. 
This,  then,  was  the  state  of  mind  in   which  Warre 
found   himself  now  that  etiquette — that   card-board 
goddess  of  peace — tripped  into  his  sorrow,  as  she 
always  must,  when  we  would  have  our  tragedy  au- 
sterely tragic.     Simon  had  trained  himself  to  think 
of  Allegra — when  he  thought  of  her  at  all — not  as  a 
creature  of  flesh  and  blood — but  as  an  influence  to 
which  he  was  wedded.    Some  men  took  the  Church ; 
some — Poverty  for  their  bride ;  he  had  chosen  ideal 
Love  in  the  person  of  a  living  woman — just  as  Dante 
long  ago  had  chosen  Beatrice.     Such  a  form  of  men- 
tal devotion  is  far  more  common  than  the  married 
mortal  passion  which  seems  more  general ;  but  one 
belongs  to  the  world   invisible,  the  language  of  si- 
lence, the  hidden  being  of  a  man  :  the  other  is  evi- 
dent, talkative,  and,  like  the  saint  who  prays  in  the 
market-place,  it  has  its  reward  in  the  fact  that  it  is  a 
public  profession — a  privilege  and  a  bliss  known  and 
observed  by  all  who  pass  by. 

As  Simon  drove  towards  Kew,  he  tried  to  read 
the  Lancet  and  the  Ti))us  ;  but  although  his  eyes  fol- 


220  I^IIE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

lowed  the  print,  its  sense  merely  droned  in  his  mind 
like  the  murmur  of  flies  by  a  whirling  river.  Now 
his  heart  seemed  to  faint  from  the  pinch  of  death ; 
now  it  woke  and  throbbed  with  the  pain  of  life. 
When  he  asked  himself,  Why? — hot  tears  burnt  up 
his  laughter.  When  he  said,  "  You  are  a  sentimental 
fool !  " — the  sharp  knife  of  despair  cut  his  breath. 
One  sudden  pang — more  cruel  than  the  rest — made 
him  cry  out.  A  moment  later  he  was  wondering — 
"Did  that  really  hurt  so  much?"  Sorrow  broke 
him  on  her  wheel.  "  This,"  he  said,  "  is  overwork  ! 
I  must  go  into  the  country  !  " 

And  so  he  suffered  and  so  he  endeavoured  to  use 
his  reason. 

When  love  and  wisdom  fight  there  is  always  an 
open  grave  between  them,  and  the  vanquished  is 
buried,  under  light  leaves,  alive.  Both  are  immor- 
tal ;  both  are  invulnerable ;  there  never  is — there 
never  can  be — a  victory,  but  one  will  sometimes  grow 
tired  and  feign  a  surrender. 

Some  street  musicians  were  playing  the  bride- 
groom's song  from  a  new  light  opera.  It  was  a  joy- 
ous tune,  giddy  in  strain  but  slow  of  measure. 
Warre  knew  the  words ;  students  and  patients 
hummed  them  at  the  hospital.  Night  rhymed  with 
bright ;  one  parted  never  and  loved  for  ever ;  the  re- 
frain was  all  about  flowers  and  bowers,  and  I  am  com- 
ing, my  sweet,  to  thee !     The  toiling,  solitary  youth- 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  221 

fulness  in  Warre  rose  up  in  wild  rebellion  ;  that  vul- 
gar song  told  of  the  common  joys  which  are  given  to 
make  work  possible.  He  had  not  slept  well  for  many 
nights ;  he  was  rarely  in  bed  before  twelve,  and  he 
rose  at  seven  ;  he  was  worrying  about  the  domestic 
troubles  of  one  of  his  colleagues ;  he  suspected  Anne 
of  deceit  and  many  things  worse ;  debts  were  accu- 
mulating ;  he  had  endorsed  a  friend's  bill  for  a  large 
amount,  and  the  friend  had  made  bad  investments. 
These  money  affairs  alone  were  a  constant  fret.  Oh, 
the  weariness  of  it  all !  If  he  could  only  sleep — for 
a  little  while. 

"  Courage,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  courage  !  "  He 
set  his  face  into  the  iron  restraint  which  people  not 
knowing  his  secret  troubles  mistook  for  pride — for 
hardness.  What  a  pity  it  was,  they  would  say,  that 
Dr.  Warre  was  so  hard. 

The  portico  of  Morne  House  was  supported  by 
four  Doric  pillars,  and  on  either  side,  an  inappropri- 
ate addition  of  bricks  and  mortar,  cut  into  three  long 
windows,  jutted  far  enough  from  the  original  struc- 
ture to  form  a  balcony.  The  carriage-drive  was 
moss-grown  ;  the  small  but  thickly  planted  shrubs 
which  concealed  each  wing  of  the  low  mansion  gave  it 
a  pinched — a  shrunken  aspect.  The  old  servant  who 
drew  back  the  bolted  doors  was  thin,  cold,  wheez- 
ing, and  shabby.     His   nose,  the  tip  of  his  chin,  and 

the  strained   skin   of   his   forehead  were  red,   and   lie 
15 


222  'I'lIE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

moved  his  shoulders  as  though  his  coat  were  chilling 
rather  than  a  protection.  Warre  followed  him 
though  the  hall,  whose  walls  had  that  old-fashioned 
papering,  which,  varnished,  is  believed  to  resemble 
yellow  marble.  Here  and  there  a  magenta  dampness 
shone  out  like  a  rich  vein  of  rare  mineral,  and  two 
plaster  bas-reliefs,  one,  of  Bacchus  with  nymphs,  and 
the  other,  of  Ariadne  forsaken,  were  the  sole  decora- 
tions. But  the  bronze  figure  of  an  unbeautiful  god- 
dess stood  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  supporting 
three  unlit  gas-jets  on  her  crown,  beckoning  nowhere 
with  one  stern  hand,  and  holding  metal  flowers  in 
the  other. 

Simon  found  himself  alone  in  the  saloon.  He 
saw  many  hard  green  velvet  chairs,  and  smelt  wild 
violets.  A  bunch  of  them  stood  in  a  little  silver 
bowl  on  the  "  Davenport."  AUegra  must  have  gath- 
ered them,  he  thought.  Their  fragrance  told  the 
sweetness  of  her  touch.  At  first  he  stood  near  the 
fire,  and  stared  at  the  mantelpiece,  which  was  held 
up  by  two  marble  divinities,  whose  limbs  grew  into  a 
column,  whose  hands  were  apples,  and  whose  breasts 
were  true-lovers'  knots.  They  looked  straight  out 
into  futurity  with  iris-less  eyes,  monuments  of  un- 
pitying  and  unpitiful  patience.  The  polished  floor 
had  grown  dim,  and  the  small  rugs  which  warmed 
it  looked  frayed  and  faded.  Dull  satin  striped  with 
silk  of  a  dingier  tone  hung  on  the  walls.     The  ceiling 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  223 

was  embossed  with  semi-circles,  scrolls,  and  fleurs- 
de-lys  in  gilt.  A  large  glass  chandelier  with  glitter- 
ing lustres  hung  in  the  middle,  and  was  reflected  in 
two  of  the  four  long  narrow  mirrors  which  divided 
each  window.  Outside  there  was  a  stone  verandah, 
where  leafless  vines  were  shivering  in  the  wind. 
Then  came  a  gravel  path,  and  then  a  stretch  of  lawn 
studded  with  empty  urns,  a  few  green  bushes,  and 
spreading  fir  trees.  Beyond  these  was  a  paddock, 
where  a  few  sheep  were  grazing ;  and  beyond  that,  a 
row  of  tall,  bare  elms,  where  the  rooks  had  built 
their  nests,  and  were  cawing,  cawing,  flying  hither 
and  yon — black  omens  of  good  luck.  The  clouds  in 
the  distance  seemed  one  with  earth — a  far-off  country 
of  high  white  hills — unpeopled  and  desolate.  As 
Warre  watched  he  heard  a  light  footstep  in  the  hall. 
He  turned  his  back  to  the  light,  and  when  Allegra 
entered  she  could  not  see  his  face.  But  the  glance 
of  her  eyes  swept  through  him  as  though  she  were  a 
skilled  musician,  and  his  heart  a  lute.  She  lived  ! 
She  moved  !  She  was  no  longer  the  bride  of  his 
sentiment,  but  bone  of  his  bone,  and  flesh  of  his  flesh, 
and  soul  of  his  soul.  He  trembled  under  the  stress 
of  that  silent,  unheard  speech,  that  passionate,  word- 
less language,  which  only  finds  utterance  in  the  cry  of 
the  winds,  and  the  tumult  of  the  sea,  and  the  falling 
of  rain  and  sicct,  or  in  the  singing,  buzzing,  piping 
melodies  oi  amorous  Nature.     Men  and  women  alone 


224  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

have  no  eloquence  when  they  love.     Oh,  why  was  it 
not  possible  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  say : 

"  What  has  the  zvorld  to  give  vie  ivhile  I  have  you  ? 
Wlien  you  are  absent,  my  beloved,  I  am  blind,  my  day  is 
darkness  and  my  life  is  death ;  my  hopes  are  all  fare- 
wells, and  my  ambition  is  a  mad  bird  with  neither  ivings 
nor  7iotesy 

But  instead  he  took  her  hand,  which  was  so  frail, 
so  gentle,  that  he  seemed  to  be  holding  a  ray  of  the 
sun — nothing  more,  and  said  : 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  feeling  tired  after  your  long 
journey  ?     How  is  the  Count  ?  " 

"  He  is  quite  well,"  she  answered. 

Then,  half  in  tears,  she  added,  against  her  will : 

"  My  dear  Simon !  My  dear,  dear  Simon,  how 
glad  it  makes  me  to  see  you  again  !  Come  and  sit 
by  the  fire.  My  godmother  is  asleep  just  now. 
When  she  wakes  they  will  call  us.  We  have  so  many 
things  to  tell  each  other.  Your  marriage  !  It  is  so 
hard  to  think  of  you — in  love  !  " 

"Why?"  he  said  flippantly.  "I  have  been  in 
love  a  dozen  times  !  " 

The  tenderest  of  women  can  be  cruel  to  a  back- 
ward lover. 

"  A  dozen  times  means  never  at  all,"  said  Allegra. 
"  I  see  you  know  nothing  about  it ! " 

"  You  have  never  understood  me." 

"  Nor  have  you  ever  understood  me." 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  225 

"  Yet  we  are  friends." 

"  Of  course." 

She  was  no  longer  the  almost  foolishly  shy  little 
girl  of  his  days  in  Rome. 

Warre  was  astonished  at  her  self-possession,  and 
chose  to  feel  bitter — attributing  the  change  to  the 
fact  that  she  had  refused  Prince  Alberoni.  Women 
were  all  alike,  he  thought.  Even  their  virtues  came 
to  them  through  vanity.  If  Allegra  seemed  less 
proud,  less  distant,  it  was  merely  because  she  felt 
more  sure  of  her  power.  Had  he  forgotten  her 
beauty,  or  had  she  a  new  fascination?  Her  eyes 
were  of  softer  depth :  her  mouth  had  lost  its  rather 
too  prim  precision,  and  her  delicate  figure  had  a 
charm  it  lacked  before.  The  schoolroom  dress  was 
now  a  Parisian  gown,  blue  lisse  over  dark  green  cloth  ; 
its  effect  made  him  think  of  a  flower  he  had  never 
seen.  Her  fine,  black  hair  was  coquettishly  dressed ; 
she  had  her  own  girlish  grace,  and  with  it  that  cap- 
tivating worldliness  of  air  which  is  so  delicious  a  de- 
fect on  an  innocent  countenance,  and  which  is  the 
most  dangerous  charm  of  a  modish  sinner.  .  .  . 

"  Of  course,  we  are  friends,"  repeated  Allegra  ; 
"  but  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  I  may  have 
seemed  rather  unkind  when  you  were  with  us  in 
Rome,  And  when  you  sent  me  the  rosary  1  wrote 
you  a  thankless  letter," 

Her  face  burned,  but  she  continued  : 


226  I^HE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

"  It  was  because  we  were  so  poor  .  .  .  and  papa 
so  often  asked  you  why  you  did  not  marry !  He 
says  the  same  thing  to  Lord  Wickenham,  And  I  am 
proud.  .  .  .  When  a  man  has  money  or  a  good  posi- 
tion, he  rarely  believes  that  any  woman's  .  .  . 
friendship  ...  is  disinterested.  I  almost  wish  that 
every  man  I  knew  was  married  !  I  dare  not  be  pleas- 
ant to  a  bachelor !  " 

She  laughed  as  she  spoke,  but  her  fingers  clasped 
each  other  painfully. 

"  Papa  has  arranged  to  let  the  Palace  to  the  Cav- 
ernakes  till  the  spring,  and  he  has  gone  into  partner- 
ship with  an  American  who  has  a  patent  blacking — 
Belton's  Bezonian  Blacking !  It  is  written  all  over 
Rome,  and  on  Sunday  afternoons  they  have  bicycle 
races  at  the  Borghese  Villa  between  Belton's  Bezo- 
nian and  Barton's  Elixir !  Papa  was  never  so  happy 
in  his  life.  He  says  he  is  making  a  fortune,  and  he 
hopes  to  be  appointed  Ambassador.  He  always 
wanted  to  represent  Italy  at  the  English  Court. 
Poor  papa !  His  American  partner  is  a  gentleman  ; 
he  used  to  be  the  First  Secretary  of  the  United  States 
Embassy  in  London  !  When  he  and  papa  are  not 
writing  advertisements,  they  talk  about  Art  and  re- 
ligion, and  play  Poker!  At  first,  I  did  not  care  for 
the  blacking,  but  boots  must  be  blacked,  and  there 
are  a  lot  of  boots !  It  seems  a  very  honest  way  of 
earning  money  .  .  .  and  it  is  nice  not  to  be  a  pauper. 


AND   LORD   WICK  EN  HAM.  22/ 

At  one  time  I  thought  it  would  mean  perfect  con- 
tentment. But  it  doesn't.  I  have  prettier  clothes  to 
wear,  and  my  friends  are  more  glad  to  see  me  .  .  . 
that  is  all." 

Ah,  why  could  she  not  speak  out  and  tell  of  those 
days  of  grief,  and  loneliness,  and  cutting  tears  which 
had  followed  his  departure  from  Rome?  Why  could 
she  not  say  ? — 

"  Voii  are  the  only  one  I  love  ;  I  can  never  love  any 
other.  Oil,  I  believe  you  love  me,  in  spite  of  your  coldness 
and  your  silence  I  I  believed  it  even  whe?i  you  left  me, 
atid  we  looked  at  each  other  without  words.  But  I  have 
thought  of  yo7i  .  .  .  always  .  .  .  always.  I  have  stood 
at  my  window  when  all  Rome  was  asleep,  and  held  out 
my  arms  and  said,  '  Shall  I  never  see  you  again  ?  Why 
do  you  not  come  to  me  f  Why  will  you  not  understand  ? 
Must  I  always  be  nothing  to  you  .  .  .  nothing?  Oh,  this 
foolish  pride  !  Is  it  stronger  than  love  ?  And  this  money 
piled  Jip  between  us  ?  Is  it  a  mountain  of  brass  ?  Why 
are  you  not  poor,  or  why  am  I  not  rich  ?  '  /  am  no  longer 
a  little  girl,  my  dearest.  I  have  thought  and  suffered  and 
wept  since  we  last  met,  I  have  learnt  to  be  alone — alone 
with  my  own  troubles,  my  otvn  doubts,  misgivings,  a?id 
cares  ;  alone  with  my  own  laughter,  my  own  sorrow,  my 
own  follies.  Ihtt  I  will  live  true  to  my  love,  and  so  die  in 
it  that  even  Death  will  say,  '  This  woman  has  been  faith- 
ful to  her  heart's  one  king  !  '  " 

But    it    was    not   possible    to    say    this,   and    Al- 


228  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

legra   sat   thinking   sad    things   and    laughing    mer- 
rily. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Warre,  "  you  intend  to  pass  a 
friv^olous  winter  ?" 

No,  she  wished  to  be  quiet.  Her  godmother  was 
an  old  lady,  who  had  spent  half  a  century  remember- 
ing four  months  of  idyllic  happiness.  She  was  at 
once  the  torment  and  the  angel  of  three  parishes  :  to 
know  her  goodness  one  had  to  be  suffering  from 
poverty  or  an  incurable  disease.  She  had  not  a  civil 
word  for  the  prosperous.  Allegra  intended  to  de- 
vote herself  to  Lady  Ralston's  charities  and  missions. 
She  had  already  ordered  a  pair  of  thick  boots  ! 

As  Allegra  talked,  she  drew  her  chair  nearer  the 
fire.  Her  slim,  small  foot,  shod  in  silk  and  bronze 
kid,  rested  on  the  fender.  There  were  little  ruffles 
that  looked  like  autumn  leaves  on  the  inch  of  under- 
petticoat  which  showed  when  she  moved.  Simon 
remembered  Wickenham's  once  remarking  that 
when  virtue  ceased  to  be  dowdy,  vice  would  lose  all 
its  allurement.  He  could  imagine  no  Circe  half  so 
dangerous  as  this  innocent  witch  of  nineteen,  whose 
deadliest  art  was  an  instinct  for  dainty  attire. 

Their  conversation  fell  into  that  homely  strain 
which  is  so  sweet  to  men  and  women  who  live  the 
greater  part  of  their  day  in  public,  meeting  friends 
who  are  the  friends  of  some  one  else,  murmuring 
artificial  opinions  on  artificial  subjects. 


AND    LORD    VVICKENHAM. 


229 


"  I  think  you  have  been  working  too  hard,"  said 
Allegra  suddenly. 

"  Oh  no.  If  I  were  not  constantly  occupied  I 
could  not  live  at  all." 

Allegra  grew  pale,  put  out  her  hand  as  though 
she  would  touch  him,  and  then  drew  it  back. 

"  Don't  say  that !  "  she  said.  "  Think  of  the 
women  who  have  no  work  to  keep  them  constantly 
occupied,  and  still — must  live  !  " 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  never  again  look 
away  from  her  face.  How  beautiful  the  modelling 
of  her  cheeks,  the  transparent,  fragile  skin,  the 
chiselled  nose,  the  modest,  silent  mouth.  She  was 
neither  witty  nor  brilliant.  She  had  very  little  to 
say,  because  she  spoke  truth  only.  She  was  too 
gentle,  too  timid  to  make  memorable  remarks. 
Sometimes  she  showed  a  fairy's  sense  of  humour, 
and  sometimes  a  woman's  untaught  wisdom  ;  but  she 
did  not  know  when  she  was  amusing,  and  she  would 
have  been  frightened  had  she  guessed  she  could  be 
profound.  Allegra's  charm  was  the  charm  of 
Spring-time  anrl  love;  all  the  kind  promises,  the 
sunshine,  the  light,  the  tenderness,  tiie  warmth,  the 
graciousncss  of  Nature — none  of  her  inexorable  jus- 
tice, her  logical  cruelty. 

"  I  do  not  think  you  could  argue  well  if  you 
tried  ! "  said  Warrc.  "  I  don't  believe  you  know 
anything  aljout  anything  !  " 


230  'I'lIK   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

And  he  laughed  as  he  had  not  laughed  for 
months.     How  he  loved  her ! 

"  I  believe,"  he  went  on,  "  that  you  could  be 
sweetly  unreasonable — that  you  could  be  perfectly 
absurd  !  " 

He  enjoyed  making  these  commonplace,  brother- 
ly observations.  Did  they  not  signify  a  kind  of  inti- 
macy ?  Did  they  not  give  him  an  excuse  to  watch 
her  expressive  countenance.  She  was  not  at  all 
pleased:  she  said  he  was  not  to  tease  her:  she  be- 
came adorably  cross.  Her  dark  eyes  flashed  :  colour 
swept  into  her  face.  Not  reasonable !  Absurd  ? 
Not  know  anything  about  anything  ?  She  was  read- 
ing Dante  and  Shakespeare  and  Lord  Rosebery's 
Life  of  Pitt. 

"  Pitt,"  said  Warre.     ''  Why  Pitt  ?  " 

She  blushed.  Lord  Wickenham  had  given  her 
this  extremely  interesting  work.  He  was  teaching 
her  English  politics.  Warre  became  more  reserved, 
and,  with  a  deep  sigh,  remarked  that  Wick  was  a 
fine  fellow.  Allegra  replied  that  Lord  Shanklin 
had  called  him  a  very  comijtg  vian.  Some  one  else 
at  the  English  Embassy  had  said  that  he  was  Mar- 
cus Aurelius — without  the  naughty  wife.  What  did 
that  mean  ? 

"  Everybody  wants  him  to  marry,"  said  Simon. 

He  glanced  at  her  as  he  spoke.  She  was  looking 
into  the  fire. 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


231 


"  I  don't  want  him  to  marry,"  she  said  at  length ; 
*'  he  is  one  of  my  friends.  It  makes  me  jealous  when 
my  friends  marry.     I  suffer." 

"  Have  you  not  forgiven  me  .  .  .  then  ? "  he 
asked,  pretending  to  jest. 

She,  too,  pretended  to  jest,  and  said  lightly : 

"No.  I  still  suffer:  I  am  still  jealous :  I  still  re- 
member the  day  your  letter  came  .  .  .  telling  .  .  ." 

His  tone  grew  more  careless,  but  his  voice  trem- 
bled. 

"  It  must  have  been  a  very  stupid  letter." 

Their  eyes  met. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said,  looking  down,  "  tell  me  why 
you  did  it  ?  Did  you  love  her  ...  so  much  ?  Was 
she  so  very  pretty  ?  " 

"  Yes  .  .  .  she  is  very  pretty." 

"  Ah  !  .  .  .  Well,  I  am  not  pretty.  I  may  not  be 
plain,  but  ...  do  you  think  I  am  plain  ?  I  fancy 
I  am  better  looking  than  I  was  .  .  .  when  you  last 
saw  mc.  That  makes  me  feel  rather  happy  !  I  did 
not  get  so  jealous  as  I  could,  because  ...  I  was 
afraid  it  would  make  me  ugly  !  I  did  not  wish  you 
to  feel  quite  sure  when  we  met  that  you  had  been 
wise  to  forget  me.  I  wanted  to  look  my  best  to-day. 
Do  I?" 

However  unwise  it  may  be  to  play  the  coquette 
after  twenty,  a  maiden  in  her  teens  may  follow  this 
indiscreet  instinct  in  the  certain  assurance  of  a  full 


232  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

absolution.  Women  have  but  one  manner  when 
they  wish  to  be  admired,  and  they  all  have  a  longing 
for  admiration — in  some  cases,  of  one  man  only,  in 
other  cases,  of  all  men.  Allegra  was  an  innocent 
Anne  ;  Anne  was  a  vicious  Allegra.  Warre,  who  had 
been  growing  clear-sighted  in  these  subtle  distinc- 
tions since  his  marriage,  now  knew  why  he  had  first 
been  drawn  towards  Anne,  and  why  he  must  always 
love  the  young  girl  who  now  seemed  so  far  away 
from  his  every-day  existence.  It  was  the  Eve  in 
both — the  loving,  inconsequent,  tearful,  smiling,  err- 
ing, unphilosophic,  deliciously  human  Eve  ! 

"  You  will  be  enchanting  always,"  he  said,  "  if 
you  steer  clear  of  Pitt !  Jealousy  will  not  work  half 
so  much  mischief  with  your  complexion  as  one  po- 
litical argument.  Read  poetry  and  the  New  Testa- 
ment, and  have  a  flower  garden.  Don't  go  to  the 
theatre  !  Don't  go  to  picture  galleries  !  Don't  look 
at  the  newspapers  !     Don't  be  well  informed,  dear !  " 

"  That  is  what  Lord  Wickenham  says,"  she  ex- 
claimed.    "  But,  of  course,  he  doesn't  call  me  dear'' 

He  flushed,  for  he  had  used  the  word  unwit- 
tingly, and  he  was  startled  himself  to  find  how  much 
it  meant — how  little  it  might  have  meant.  Had  he 
not  known  Allegra  since  she  was  twelve  years  old  ? 
Had  she  not  been  in  student  days  his  pretty  excuse 
for  buying  sweetmeats?  Had  he  not  always  thought 
of  her  by  names  of  endearment  ?     His  affection  was 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


233 


SO  deep — so  closely  knit  in  his  mind  and  being,  that 
it  had  never  known  the  half-ashamed  self-conscious- 
ness of  passion — it  was,  like  all  true  love,  uncon- 
scious, self-forgetful. 

"  You  must  forgive  me,"  he  said.  "  I  forget  that 
you  are  no  longer  a  child." 

Why  should  this  delightful,  ridiculous  trifling  be 
wrong  ?  Where  was  the  harm  in  these  frivolous 
sayings  ?  They  could  mean  nothing.  Yet,  under- 
neath them,  was  there  not  a  desperate  impulse  to 
speak  out — to  utter  things  by  no  means  frivolous, 
by  no  means  trifling?  Was  there  not  a  desire — as 
strong  as  all  Nature — to  hold  Allegra  a  lifetime  in 
his  arms? 

Warre  got  up  from  his  chair  and  looked  at  his 
watch. 

"This  holiday,"  said  he,  "must  satisfy  me — for 
weeks.  I  am  afraid  it  will  be  a  lonjr  while  before  I 
see  you  again." 

She  seemed  to  understand  and  acquiesce.  They 
had  laughed  aloud  the  comedy,  and  inly  wept  the 
tragedy  of  their  fate. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  he. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  answered.  "Will  it  be  a  cold 
drive  home  ?  " 

"  A  very  cold  drive." 

"And  it  must  be  a  long  while  before  I  sec  you 
again  ?  " 


234  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

"  Yes !  " 

"  Good-bye.  .  .  .  Will  there  be  a  large  fire  in 
your  study  ?     Have  you  a  chair  you  like  ?  " 

"Oh  yes!" 

"  I  suppose  she  sits  near  you  when  you  work  ?" 

"Who?" 

"  Mrs.  Warre." 

"You  mean  Anne?  .  .  .  She  has  a  number  of 
friends ;  she  goes  to  a  lot  of  parties.  She  is  very 
.  .  .  bright." 

"  Good-bye !  " 

This  time  he  did  not  answer. 

When  he  had  gone  she  stole  about  the  room, 
moved  the  ornaments  on  the  Chinese  cabinet,  shook 
the  window-curtains,  and  redraped  them.  She  felt 
the  housewife's  instinct  stir  within  her.  Then  she 
sat  down  on  the  floor,  and,  drawing  an  old  letter 
from  her  bosom,  murmured  it  backwards  without 
once  looking  at  the  page.  And  she  laid  her  head 
where  Simon's  foot  had  rested,  and  wept  as  little 
girls  in  the  April  of  sorrow  can  weep. 


AND   LORD   \VICKENHAM. 


235 


CHAPTER  XX. 

IN   WHICH    WARRE   REASONS   WHILE  ANNE   READS. 

Warre,  on  leaving  Morne  House,  drove  to  the 
Knightsbridge  Hospital.  Allegra,  for  the  moment, 
was  so  present  in  his  memory,  that  although  he  had 
wished  her  good-bye  for  what  he  knew  must  be  a 
long,  long  time,  he  did  not  miss  her — did  not  feel 
that  the  better  part  had  fallen  away  irrevocably  from 
his  life.  The  soul  is  borne  upon  a  profound  emotion 
like  a  ship  on  a  vast  sea;  now  it  seems  engulphed, 
and  now  it  sails  serenely ;  it  is  tossed  high,  pitched 
low ;  sometimes  it  races  with  the  wind,  sometimes  it 
seems  at  anchor;  but  underneath  it  there  are  always 
the  rise  and  fall,  the  depths  of  an  unfathomable  ocean. 

Simon  was  sorrowful — yes  !  He  was  used  to  sor- 
row. Self-restraint,  long  practised  will,  in  time, 
leave  little  to  restrain.  The  art  of  dying  daily  is 
slowly  mastered  ;  but  once  learnt  it  becomes  an  in- 
stinct— an  unconscious  will  deciding  all  our  difficul- 
ties, solving  our  griefs.  Now  that  Warre  had  seen 
Allegra,  and.  in  their  meeting,  learnt  all   the  great 


236  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

devotion  he  felt  for  her  exacted  not  only  from  his 
thoughts  but  from  his  nature,  he  knew  the  useless- 
ness  of  attempting  to  regard  her  as  any  one  more 
sacred  than  a  spirit,  or  less  human  than  a  woman. 
He  loved  her  with  all  honour  and  reverence  as  a 
man  should  love  his  wife,  but  he  could  not  call  that 
surpassing  affection  friendship,  nor  could  he  pretend 
to  himself  that  it  had  for  its  essence  the  false  purity 
which  makes  a  virtue  of  sexlessness.  The  most  he 
could  do  was  to  kill  his  mortality,  bury  it ;  to  look 
beyond  his  own  heart  and  its  desires  ;  to  think  but 
of  AUegra — of  what,  in  the  future  before  them,  would 
be  best  and  happiest  for  her.  First  and  above  all 
other  things  it  was  his  duty  to  remain  for  ever  dis- 
tant from  her  world.  He  knew  now  that  she  cared 
for  him,  at  least,  more  than  a  little.  It  was  not  the 
hour  to  deny,  in  mock  modesty,  this  sweet  and  bitter 
truth.  If  they  met  each  other  often,  might  not  this 
innocent  preference  ripen  into  an  equally  innocent 
but  most  unfortunate  love  ?  She  was  so  young — 
every  fair  promise  of  earth  lay  written  before  her ; 
she  had  but  to  accept  the  fulfilment  of  each.  And 
Wickenham  :  what  of  him  ?  Was  he  not  the  prince 
amonsr  men  who  deserved  to  win  her  love?  Their 
possible  marriage  was  the  one  dim  brightness  in 
Warre's  sad,  clouded  sky.  Those  two,  whom  he 
held  dearer  than  his  own  heart's  desire,  would  never 
meet  despair  and  desolation,  or  that  thing  so  much 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  237 

worse  than    death — the    knowledge    that   pain    does 
not  kill. 

And  thus  it  happened  that,  as  Simon  drove  away 
from  Kew,  he  could  call  AUegra  beautiful  and  think 
of  a  committee  meeting  at  which  he  was  to  speak  in 
an  hour's  time.  When  he  reached  Kniofhtsbridofe  he 
looked  fresher,  younger,  and  in  better  spirits  than 
his  colleagues  had  seen  him  for  many  months.  His 
speech  was  on  a  barren  subject  in  connection  with 
the  management  of  a  certain  ward.  To  interest 
middle-aged  and  dyspeptic  Science  in  the  question 
of  yellow  as  opposed  to  soft  soap  for  the  scrubbing 
of  board  floors  requires  rhetorical  gifts  of  a  high 
order.  Simon  laughed  at  himself  and  to  himself 
when  it  was  over  and  he  went  home.  His  suppressed 
boyishness  would  sometimes  peep  over  his  melan- 
chol}',  just  as  an  healthy  urchin  will  climb  an  orchard 
wall  be  it  never  so  thickly  set  with  spears  and  spikes, 

Anne  had  recovered,  she  said,  from  her  headache, 
and,  arrayed  in  a  white  silk  tea-gown  trimmed  with 
chinchilla,  lay  on  the  sofa  in  the  drawing-room,  read- 
ing Crucllc  Enii^tnc,  and  coughing  like  Marguerite 
Gautier  in  the  last  act  of  La  Dame  aiix  Cavu'lias. 
Mrs.  Warrc's  desire  to  produce  on  all  occasions  a 
theatrical  effect  was  not  merely  the  result  of  her 
early  passion  for  the  stage  and  her  frequent  visits  to 
the  play-house.     The  love  for  the  sham  picturesque, 

for  arranging  tricks  of  light   and  shade  and  colour, 
16 


238  THE    GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

for  Striking-  unusual  attitudes,  inventing  discords, 
combining  antagonistic  colours,  twisting  a  false 
knowledge  of  Nature  into  a  falser  presentment  of 
life — all  this  is  not  an  affectation  confined  to  any 
small  group  of  silly  women,  but  it  is  the  Manner  in 
art,  literature,  and  society  of  modern  London,  mod- 
ern Paris,  and  modern  New  York.  Warre  himself 
had  never  been  able  to  wholly  defy  its  fascination. 
Wickenham  resisted  its  claim,  but  was  sometimes  be- 
wildered by  its  glamour. 

"  The  century  is  dying,"  he  would  say,  "  and  one 
must  humour  the  moribund.  The  thing  cannot  last 
much  longer.  Let  us  gird  up  our  loins  for  a  good 
tussle  with  Anno  Domini  1900!"  ... 

Simon  now  always  found  himself  regarding  Anne 
as  though  she  were  a  mechanical  puppet  on  show. 
Her  clothes,  her  gestures,  her  speech,  and  her  per- 
formance sickened  his  good  sense,  yet  fixed  his 
curiosity.  Although  she  had  utterly  failed  in  her 
ambition  to  shine  out  as  the  great  lady  of  this  gen- 
eration, she  was,  at  least,  the  smartest  woman  in 
town  for  her  little  day.  Her  superb  beauty  and  the 
splendour  of  her  toilettes  made  her  the  gorgeous  or- 
nament of  Private  Views,  First  Nights,  Race  Courses, 
and  the  Opera ;  her  gowns  and  engagements  were 
described  in  The  Court  Revietv  and  all  the  boudoir 
journals ;  she  may  not  have  been  distinguished,  but 
she  was  prominent.     Her  dazzling  prudence  silenced 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  239 

gossip,  and  envy,  therefore,  had  a  richer  food  for 
spleen.  Since  no  cardinal  sin  could  be  brought 
against  her,  suspicion,  thrusting  its  tongue  in  its 
cheek,  showed  an  ominous  reluctance  to  speak  words. 
She  gave  the  kind  no  opportunity  to  be  charitable, 
and  the  self-righteous  no  occasion  to  throw  stones. 
The  good  w^ere  uneasy  in  her  presence,  and  the  evil, 
full  of  resentment  at  what  they  felt  instinctively  was 
not  superior  virtue,  but  a  supreme  gift  for  dissimu- 
lation. She  baffled  belief  and  hood-winked  doubt. 
Anne  had,  in  fact,  that  inhuman  something  which  is 
the  soul  of  a  charlatan  and  the  thorn  in  the  flesh  of 
a  genius.  The  distinction  between  inhumanity  and 
the  supernatural  lies  in  the  breath — the  inspiration 
of  mortal  deeds,  not  in  the  doers.  There  is  the  idea 
fallen  from  heaven,  the  idea  risen  from  hell,  and  the 
idea  rooted  in  Limbo — that  sphere  of  unproved  tres- 
passers and  unestablished  saints.  Any  one  of  these 
three  ideas  will  make  the  man  or  woman  possessing 
it  remarkable;  it  will  be  the  divine  element  in  the 
noblest  success,  the  terrible  word  in  the  least  pitiable 
tragedy,  or  the  germ  of  romance  in  the  most  igno- 
minious failure.  Anne  Warre  had  made  up  her 
mind  that  her  fate  led  to  a  high  y)lacc  in  the  world 
f>f  fashion.  She  had  studied  the  life  of  Madame  de 
Pompadour,  and  copied  her  model  with  the  little 
fidelity  which  might  be  expected  from  an  unimagi- 
native, ill-educated  woman  of  to-day,  who  would  try 


240  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

to  act  the  brilliant  coquette  and  diplomatist  of  the 
eighteenth-century  Versailles.  She  could  not  form 
an  even  dim  conception  of  the  creature  she  wished 
to  emulate,  and,  dwelling  on  the  facts  rather  than 
the  circumstances  of  Mademoiselle  Poisson's  ca- 
reer saw  herself  in  power  as  the  king's  mistress, 
courted,  feared,  unquestioned,  and  unrestrained 
when  there  was  no  king,  and  at  a  period  in  social 
history  when  the  Pompadour  herself  could  only 
have  gained  distinction  by  not  being  the  thing 
she  was. 

Warre  did  not  know  Anne's  secret  aspirations, 
but  he  saw  her  feverish  discontent,  her  restless  mind. 
Her  face,  which  still  kept  its  almost  statuesque 
perfection  of  line  and  modelling,  had  now  the  unsat- 
isfied, hunted  look  of  one  who  is  enslaved  to  self- 
advancement.  Avarice  had  sharpened  her  features, 
steeled  her  eyes  ;  long  brooding  on  the  fancied  in- 
justice of  her  lot  had  drawn  her  mouth  into  a  sneer. 
She  looked  like  some  splendid  goddess  of  mean 
evil. 

As  Simon  entered  the  drawing-room  she 
gave  him  a  sombre  smile,  and  held  out  her 
hand. 

"  I  have  been  wondering,"  she  said,  "  why  you 
married  me,  darling.  If  I  were  to  die,  would  you 
grieve  ?  If  anything  .  .  .  should  ever  happen  to 
me,  would  you  feel  that  perhaps  you  had  not  always 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  24I 

judged  me  fairly— treated  me  with  kindness?  Bour- 
get  " — she  held  up  Cruelle  Enigme  and  let  two  tears 
fall  on  the  lovers  which  were  pictured  on  the 
cover — "  Bourget  would  have  understood  me  per- 
fectly !  " 


2J.2  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

IN   WHICH   THE   AUTHOR   SPEAKS. 

Warre  had  letters  to  write,  and  soon  went  down 
the  stairs  into  his  own  dark  study.  There  in  that 
theatre  of  so  many  bitter  soliloquies  and  so  many 
scenes  with  Anne,  the  pregnant  misery  of  his  situa- 
tion greeted  him,  as  it  were,  on  the  threshold. 

He  had  long  suspected  that  Anne  was  involved 
in  some  miserable  intrigue.  Her  appeal  to  the  tri- 
bunal of  Paul  Bourget  lifted  this  fear  into  a  firm  con- 
viction. The  thought  of  having  her  actions  spied 
upon  was  so  repugnant  to  his  sense  of  honour  that  it 
did  not  gain  a  sufficient  entrance  to  his  mind  to  find 
dismissal.  It  would  have  helped  him  had  he  been 
able  to  tell  his  wretched  story  to  Lord  Wickenham, 
yet  he  could  not  repeat  Anne's  confessions  to  an- 
other. His  pride,  too,  suffered  in  the  humiliating 
knowledge  that  a  wanton  had  deceived  him.  No 
man,  however  charitable  in  his  judgment  of  a  wom- 
an's weakness,  but  feels  resentful,  degraded,  and 
ashamed  when  vanity  lays  waste  the  poor  few  sacred 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


243 


feet  of  earth  he  would  keep  consecrated  and  call 
home.  No,  he  told  himself,  he  could  not  bear  pity  : 
he  could  not  tell  his  grief.  And  so,  with  the  high- 
est kind  of  false  sentiment,  he  decided,  like  all  the 
haughty  and  self-reliant  in  trouble,  that  he  would 
bear  his  sorrow  in  silence.  He  overlooked,  in  per- 
fect honesty  and  good  faith,  the  natural  intense  de- 
sire to  shield  his  own  idea  of  his  own  dignity,  and 
saw  only  the  educated — (never  instinctive) — wish  to 
spare  his  friends  a  shock,  w^hich,  had  he  allowed  his 
experience  to  argue,  he  must  have  known  they  would 
have  felt  but  slightly.  Friends  hear  our  domestic 
revelations  with  great  ease,  and,  when  they  have 
heard  all,  they  blame  the  reserve  which  kept  them 
out  of  the  secret  as  cowardice — not  Quixotic  hero- 
ism.  Wrongs  which  are  never  told  can  never  be 
righted. 

But  if  Simon  had  been  able  to  pierce  this  self- 
deception  with  clear  eyes,  there  would  still  have 
remained,  as  a  deterrent  from  any  refuge  in  the 
Law,  such  an  unfeigned  compassion  for  the  woman 
at  stake — such  an  im willingness  to  discover  her  igno- 
miny, that,  although  the  price  of  its  concealment  was 
his  own  lifelong  captivity,  he  could  not  have  found 
the  voice  to  jjroclaim  Anne's  baseness. 

Warrc's  nature  was  foolishly  kind — sweetly,  rallici' 
than  robustly  chivalrous.  lb-  was  not  a  lighter,  not 
a  soldier  in  the  Kingdom  ol  (iod,  but   one  of   those 


2AA  THE    GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

who  tend  the  sick  and  wounded.  He  could  not 
preach  deliverance,  or  strike  boldly  at  things  and 
men  corrupt.  It  was  for  him  to  spend  his  splendid 
energy  in  struggles  with  his  own  soul,  and  his  more 
than  womanly  tenderness  on  beings  who,  for  the  most 
part,  thought  him  clement  because  he  lacked  the 
courage  to  be  severe.  Warre's  mental  equipment 
was  stronger  than  his  mind.  Wickenham's  mind  was, 
in  those  days,  stronger  than  its  equipment.  Simon 
was  not  a  man  of  one  idea— of  one  ruling  hope— one 
straight  ambition.  He  had  a  feminine  impulsiveness, 
and  those  quick-roving  sympathies  which  can  light 
one  candle  to  St.  Michael  and  the  other  to  the 
Draeon.  He  was  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  with  the 
artist's  aspirations,  the  ascetic's  self-abnegation,  the 
scholar's  fatal  hesitancy — a  man  who,  with  an  almost 
wilfully  perverse  sense  of  what  was  expected  of  him, 
would,  if  two  cups  were  offered  for  his  choice,  take 
the  pewter  rather  than  the  gold,  the  stale  beer  rather 
than  the  rare  wine.  Such  men  should  never  have 
others  dependent  on  them  :  they  make  weak  fathers, 
foolish  husbands.  They  are  born  to  be  loved  by, 
and  to  be  a  killing  care  to,  those  more  resolute. 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM. 


245 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

ALLEGRA. 

Allegra  kept  her  word,  and  remained  very  close 
to  Lady  Ralston  all  the  winter.  She  did  not  see 
Warre  again.  Anne  called  once  at  Morne  House, 
talked  religion  and  Woman's  Suffrage  for  fifteen 
minutes,  and  left  both  ladies  with  the  feeling  that, 
although  she  was  beautiful  and  good-humoured,  they 
would  rather  not  discuss  her  charms.  When  they 
returned  her  visit  they  were  relieved  to  hear  that  she 
was  not  at  home.  Vet  they  said  nothing  to  each 
other  on  the  subject. 

Lord  Wickenham's  friends  were  constant  at  first 
in  their  attentions  and  invitations  to  Count  Vendra- 
mini's  daughter,  but  the  girl  seemed  to  have  no  taste 
for  balls  or  dinners,  country-house  parties,  or  the 
gaieties  of  town.  It  soon  became  the  fashion  to  call 
her  arrogant,  wrapt  up  in  herself,  and  cold.  Oh,  these 
foreigners!  They  were  very  deep.  She  was  living 
quietly  at  Kcw  now,  because,  no  doubt,  she  thought 
it  would  be  more  efTcctive  to  come  out  in  the  blazing 


246  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

noon  of  the  London  season.  Clever  little  thing ! 
These  motherless  girls  were  shrewd.  And  that  old 
Lady  Ralston.  She  was  Scotch  and  canny :  she 
never  made  mistakes.  As  for  Lord  Wickenham  ? 
Well,  it  was  disappointing  to  see  him  take  tip  with  an 
Italian.  A  wholesome  English  woman  was  the  wife 
for  him  !  Of  course,  Allegra  w^as  half-English,  but 
the  least  said  about  her  English  blood  the  better ! 
Every  one  knew  the  story.  Her  maternal  grand- 
parents were  Lord  Denborough  and  the  Duchess  of 
A.  A  nice  lookout  for  poor  Wick!  Why,  the 
Duchess  had  ten  lovers  at  least — oh,  naughty  lady  ! 
—and  Denborough — Denborough  was  at  once  a  saint, 
a  genius,  a  villain,  a  Lovelace,  a  Lancelot,  a  Tom 
Jones,  and  a  Jupiter.  It  was  impossible  to  pass  any 
judgment  on  the  conduct  of  that  remarkable  sinner. 
So  rumour  raved  and  gossip  clacked.  Allegra  heard 
neither. 

Her  time  was  not  wasted  in  that  apparent  tomb 
of  all  work,  all  wit,  and  all  ambition— Morne  House, 
near  Kew.  She  spent  her  days  in  parish  work,  and, 
in  the  evening  after  dinner,  played  Mozart  and  Bach 
till  ten,  when  her  god-mother  went  to  bed  and  the 
gas  was  turned  off  at  the  meter.  The  parish  work 
was  arduous  and  exciting.  Mr.  Gibbs,  of  St.  Mary's, 
was  Calvinistic  ;  the  Rev.  Sir  John  Smallpage,  of 
Morne  Chapel,  followed  Wyclif — till  he  went  too 
far ;  Mr.  Wentley-Bramham  was  a  moderate,  pains- 


AND    LORD   ^VICKENHAM.  247 

taking  creature  with  nine  children  ;  Mr.  Becket  Mar- 
lowe agreed  with  the  Bishop  of  Lincohi.  Then 
there  were  all  the  curates,  their  wives  and  families,  to 
assist,  and  the  opposition  Congregationalists,  Meth- 
odists, Baptists,  Unitarians,  and  Salvationists  to 
modify  and  contend  against.  Lady  Ralston's  gov- 
ernment of  these  all-eloquent  worthies  and  their 
womenfolk  would  have  taught  Prime  Ministers 
many  a  useful  lesson.  The  young  girl  threw  her 
heart  into  these  new  interests,  and  tried  to  forget 
that  she  was  working  to  find  forgetfulness.  Yet 
when  a  night  was  starry,  or  when  snow  fell  and  made 
the  earth  look  white,  or  when  at  sunset  colour  wove 
the  banners  of  love  in  the  sky,  or  when,  in  the  early 
morning,  she  looked  out  from  her  window  and  read 
the  promise  of  Summer  in  the  rose  of  a  wintry  dawn, 
the  tears  would  spring  to  her  eyes,  and  she  would 
feel  lonely — a  craving  for  human  companionship. 

But  she  was  sincerely  religious  in  the  old  Puri- 
tanical spirit.  Her  Scotch  nurse  had  taught  her  a 
stern  and  simple  creed  which  became  softened  in 
AUegra's  nature — as  it  did  in  young  Milton's — by 
the  Pagan  grace  of  Italy.  Her  God  was  the  Creator 
of  a  beautiful  world  which  He  loved,  lie  did  not 
hate  it,  spurn  it,  despise  it;  lie  had  found  it  good 
when  it  was  made,  and  when  it  became,  in  His  sight, 
evil,  He  gave  His  only  Son  for  its  redemj)tion.  In 
pain  and   sorrow,  disease  and   death,  she   found   but 


248  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

the  just  discipline  of  a  True,  All-wise  Affection,  If 
she  sometimes  seemed  indifferent  to  praise  or  cen- 
sure it  was  because  she  lived,  not  to  win  favours 
from  men  and  women,  but  to  serve  God.  She  was 
too  young  not  to  be  too  independent  in  her  ministry. 
Her  devotion  rested  on  that  attachment  to  and  belief 
in  the  Person  of  God  without  which  faith  is  a  mere 
dry  mental  acquiescence  in  useful  fallacies.  She  did 
not  think  that  to  trust  in  the  Almighty  was  the  best 
mistake  she  could — for  her  own  peace  of  life — make. 
It  was  the  instinct  of  her  soul — a  fealty  as  intimate, 
inexplicable,  and  everlasting  as  the  tie  which  some- 
times binds  one  human  being  to  another,  and  which 
is  so  far  exalted  above  all  senses  and  selfish  senti- 
ments that  love  is  but  its  moon  and  friendship  but 
the  shadow  of  its  shadow.  This  sense  of  nearness  to 
God  and  of  His  actual  existence  as  the  Supreme 
King  of  earth,  and  heaven,  and  hell,  was  the  crown 
of  the  early  martyrs  and  the  sword  of  early  Puritan- 
ism. As  that  knowledge  grew  less  vivid,  and  scepti- 
cism— making  a  profession  of  reverence — called  this 
chivalric  trust  profane — hedging  the  King's  Divinity 
about  with  mysteries,  with  insurmountable  barriers 
of  dogma  and  Church  etiquette,  so  the  crown  was 
stolen  and  the  sword  became  a  white  feather.  The 
fear  of  approaching  a  Throne  too  closely  and  the 
desire  to  keep  it  inaccessible  was  and  is  ever  the 
characteristic  of  those  who  would  usurp  its  power — 


AND    LORD   WICKEXHAM. 


249 


never  of  the  faithful  who  would  serve  and  protect  it. 
AUegra,  therefore,  read  her  Bible,  and,  sure  that  her 
God  was  indeed,  and  in  reality,  God,  worshipped  Him 
as  devoutly  in  a  Protestant  Chapel  as  at  High  Mass, 
and  felt  as  close  to  Him  in  the  common  scenes  of  life 
as  in  the  pew  of  an  Anglican  cathedral.  Yet  when 
she  asked  herself  where  she  saw  most  piety  and 
where  she  found  men  and  women  with  a  belief  as 
determined  as  her  own,  it  was  among  the  poor  and 
obscure  Roman  Catholics,  or  among  English  Non- 
conformists of  the  educated  class.  These  last  had 
often  to  endure  ridicule  and  insult  as  the  penalty  of 
their  unfashionable  convictions  ;  to  be  a  Dissenter 
was  to  represent — in  so-called  polite  society — all  the 
pettiest  and  meanest  in  the  human  mind.  Allegra 
had  a  deep  respect  for  the  clergy  outside  the  Estab- 
lished Church,  although  Lady  Ralston  could  only 
refer  to  them  in  her  most  generous  moments  as 
orderly  rujjians. 

The  girl  did  not  care  for  the  meddlesome  art  of 
district  visiting.  She  was  not  English,  and  it  seemed 
to  her  democratic  spirit  gross  insolence  to  pry  unin- 
vited into  the  homes  of  people  who,  because  they 
were  poorer  or  of  lower  social  rank  than  herself, 
were  presumed  to  have  no  privacy,  no  ])ride.  Lord 
Wickcnham  encouraged  her  feeling  on  this  point. 

"  Suppose,"  he  once  said  to  Lady  Ralston,  "  I 
were,  f(;r  a  change,   to   intrude   (jm   the    rich    in    this 


250  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

neighbourhood.  I  should  visit  Lady  Talbot  de  Lisle 
and  say :  '  Is  it  true,  my  good  woman,  that  your  hus- 
band is  usually  drunk,  and  that  you  have  not  paid 
your  dressmaker's  bill  ?  I  was  greatly  shocked  not 
to  see  you  at  church  last  Sunday.  What  does  this 
mean  ?  Why  do  you  allow  your  son  to  waste  his 
time  and  his  money  on  the  racecourse?  This  is  all 
wrong.  If  you  want  to  know  how  to  make  a  nour- 
ishing soup  during  this  cold  weather,  put  potatoe 
skins  in  the  stock-pot.  K  you  should  have  no 
stock-pot  boil  vegetables  in  water  and  season  them 
well.  The  French  are  so  clever  at  that  sort  of 
thing  ! ! '  And  then  I  should  look  at  her  as  though 
she  ought  to  curtsey  and  think  me  an  angel.  I 
say  such  things  are  neither  kind  nor  virtuous  ;  they 
are  vulgar  and  disgusting.  Sisters  of  Charity  do  good 
work  because  they  are  poor  themselves  ;  they  are  not 
fine  ladies  who  mistake  inquisitiveness  for  Christian 
sympathy,  the  love  of  domineering  for  neighbourly 
affection,  and  their  husband's  need  of  votes  for  a  wish 
to  tend  the  humble.  I  know  many  poor  people;  I  love 
them.  I  go  to  see  them  when  they  invite  me  to  their 
homes;  they  are  my  friends.  They  tell  me  how  they 
suffer  under  this  odious  espionage  and  interference. 
The  weak  endure  it  because  they  dare  not  complain; 
hypocrites  submit  to  it  because  they  hope  to  gain  some 
prize  for  their  pusillanimity  ;  but  the  strong  grow  sul- 
len and  desperate.     There  will  be  a  revolt  one  day." 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM. 


251 


Lord  Wickenham  often  came  to  Morne  House, 
and  Allegra  enjoyed  his  visits  till  she  guessed  that 
his  interest  had  a  deeper  intention  than  friendship. 
Then  she  became  unhappy,  for,  while  she  was  too 
modest  to  own  in  words  to  herself  that  he  possibly 
loved  her,  she  feared  .  .  .  she  knew  not  what.  But 
she  opened  his  letters  in  trembling,  and  dreaded  the 
pauses  in  their  conversation.  Lady  Ralston,  how- 
ever, was  nearly  always  present  when  he  came,  and 
he  talked  to  her  far  more  than  he  did  to  the  young 
girl.  He  would  bring  Allegra  music  and  pic- 
ture-books and  chocolate,  from  town ;  she  would 
play  the  music,  look  at  the  pictures  over  his  shoulder, 
and  share  the  chocolates  with  her  ladyship's  gasping 
pug-dog.  Lady  Ralston  herself  had  understood 
Wickenham's  attentions  from  the  first,  but  she  had 
also  divined  that  her  god-daughter  was  suffering  from 
some  secret  disappointment.  She  could  not  have 
been  so  indifferent  to  a  handsome  and  noble  lover 
unless  she  had  looked  once  too  often  on  some  one 
who  seemed  to  her  even  nobler — even  more  hand- 
some. There  was  no  hope  at  present  of  Allegra's 
accepting  any  husband,  and  her  ladyship  took  every 
precaution  that  Wickenham  should  not  be  tempted 
into  a  premature  declaration  of  his  hope.  She  trem- 
bled with  ap[)rehcnsion  when  he  told  them  that  he 
intended  to  give  a  ball  at  Gifford  House. 


252  'IHE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

ACCIDENTS   AND   THE   INEVITABLE. 

Lord  Wickenham's  ball  took  place  on  a  night 
in  April.  It  was  a  large  and  brilliant  function : 
royalty  and  aristocracy  and  officialdom  and  Mrs. 
Warre  were  present.  Anne  had  never  been  so  loudly 
admired  nor  more  heartily  detested.  Wickenham — 
meaning  to  please  Simon — had  allowed  her  to  figure 
as  the  inspiration  of  the  entertainment.  She  had  in- 
vited several  enemies  to  witness  her  triumph,  and  a 
few  rich  friends  who  would  know,  to  quote  her  own 
phrase,  "  how  to  be  grateful  for  a  lilt."  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Lumley-Savage  were  amongst  the  latter. 

The  entrance  of  Lady  Ralston  with  Allegra  Ven- 
dramini  distracted  all  attention,  however,  from  the 
dancing,  or  the  supper,  or  the  other  guests.  Most 
of  the  women  declared  that  they  could  see  nothing 
in  the  girl  to  rave  about ;  she  was  so  un-English. 
True,  she  knew  how  to  dress,  but  she  had  no  pres- 
ence. Imagine  her  without  that  exquisite  gown ! 
How    insignificant !     Poor   Wickenham !      Captured 


AND   LORD   WICKEXHAM.  253 

at  last  by  a  few  yards  of  lace  and  silk  draped  by 
French  hands  on  an  Italian  figure  !  Really,  it  was 
too  comic !  Had  he  no  eyes  for  Lady  Mary's  shoul- 
ders, or  Lady  Betty's  bust,  or  the  newest  baronet's 
heiress's  beautiful  back?  Mr.  Stanley  Breakspeare's 
criticism  to  the  effect  that  the  future  Countess  of 
Wickenham  looked  like  a  virtuous  Jan  Van  Beers, 
flew  through  the  assembly  unrivalled,  till  it  reached 
the  old  Duke  of  Penhaven,  who  called  her  une 
feinme  appdtissante. 

The  young  girl  herself  was  happily  unconscious 
of  the  gossip  she  occasioned,  and  enjoyed — as  her 
youth  and  her  innocence  gave  her  every  warrant  to 
enjoy — the  music,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  excite- 
ment, and  the  waltzes. 

"  I  wish,"  she  said  to  Lord  Wickenham,  "  that  I 
did  not  feel  as  though  it  must  soon  strike  twelve, 
and  that  everything  then  for  me  will  change  into 
rats  and  rags,  just  as  it  did  for  poor  Cinderella !  " 

They  were  strolling  down  the  picture-gallery 
towards  one  of  the  ante-rooms  which  contained  a 
fine  statue  of  Niobc  by  Bernini.  His  lordship 
frowned  when  Maukin-Fawkcs  suddenly  came  for- 
ward and  placed  himself  in  their  way. 

"I  say,"  said  he,  with  a  ])ompous  voice  and  a 
flurried  manner,  "  I  am  sorry  to  interrupt  you,  but 
the    most    awful    thing    has    happened.      Poor   old 

Warrc   had  been  to  see  a  patient,  and  was  driving 

17 


254  »  '^'"^   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

here,  when  a  cab  ran  into  his  brougham,  and  there's 
been  a  smash-up.  They  say  he  can't  possibly  live, 
it  he  isn't  dead  already.  They  have  taken  him  to 
Grosvenor  Street.  Some  one  must  tell  Mrs.  Warre. 
She  is  in  there."  He  pointed  to  the  ante-room,  and 
looked  narrowly  into  Wickenham's  eyes.  "  She  is 
in  there  with  that  beast,  Lumley-Savage.  It's  very 
awkward !  " 

"  Let  us  go  to  her,"  said  AUegra ;  "  let  us  go  to 
her  at  once.  Simon  will  be  thinking  of  her — if  he  is 
not  yet  dead — and  wondering  why  she  does,  not  come 
— wondering  why  he  is  alone.     Let  us  go  to  her!  " 

She  spoke  with  a  composure  and  a  tone  of  au- 
thority which  made  both  men  afraid.  Maukin- 
Fawkes  slunk  back,  but  Wickenham  followed  her. 

Anne  was  not  in  the  ante-room. 

Allegra  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  When 
she  took  them  away  again,  she  looked  as  though  a 
veil  of  stone  had  been  cast  over  her  countenance. 

"  I  want  to  be  alone,"  she  said  to  Wickenham. 
"  I  want  you  to  leave  me.  I  cannot  speak  of  Simon  ; 
but  I  cannot  speak  of  anything  else." 

Wickenham  walked  a  little  distance  off  to  the 
small  balcony,  and  the  girl  sat  down  on  the  pedestal 
at  the  feet  of  the  statue  of  Niobe.  She  rested  her 
head  against  that  monument  of  imperishable  grief, 
and  her  spirit  seemed  to  grow  one  with  it.  At  last, 
unobserved  by  his  lordship,  she  stole  away. 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  255 

The  guests  were  dancing.  AUegra  called  one  of 
the  maids  from  the'  cloak-room,  and,  explaining  that 
she  felt  unwell  but  did  not  wish  to  call  attention  to 
her  departure,  she  escaped  from  the  house  by  the 
servants'  staircase. 

She  ordered  a  cab,  and  drove  to  Simon's  residence 
in  Grosvenor  Street. 

When  she  reached  it,  her  heart  regained  the 
agony  of  living.  She  was  like  one  who  wakes  in 
torment  from  the  peace  of  a  sleeping-draught.  Her 
voice  broke  into  tears  on  asking  the  servant  for  Dr. 
Warre.  The  man,  she  thought,  seemed  extraordi- 
narily calm.  She  forgot  that  those  in  a  doctor's 
service  are  used  to  seeing  sorrowful  and  despairing 
visitprs  at  every  hour  of  the  day. 

She  was  shown  into  the  study.  Warre  was  sit- 
ting at  his  table,  writing.  His  back  was  turned 
towards  her.  When  he  heard  her  name  announced, 
he  stood  up,  and  they  looked  at  each  other  as  though 
they  had  each  dreamed  a  dream  which  had  come 
true. 

"  You  !  "  he  said. 

She  put  out  her  hands  and  touched  him. 

"  I  thought,"  she  whispered,  "  I  thought  you  were 
dying.  They  said  so  .  .  .  at  the  ball.  That  is  why 
I  came  here.  ...   I  could  not  stay  away." 

"  I  am  all  riLcht,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  lightly  ; 
"one    of    the    horses    was  killed.     I    don't   believe    1 


256  THE   GODS.  SOME   MORTALS, 

have  even  a  bruise.  I  am  sorry  you  were  alarmed. 
.  .  .  No  one  .  .  .  likes  to  hear  of  a  sudden  accident 
to  a  friend.  .  .  .  It  is  good  of  you  to  have  come.  I 
cannot  thank  you.  ...  If  it  had  been  a  true  report 
.  .  .  this  .  .  .  this  proof  of  your  friendship  would 
have  seemed  worth  many  deaths !  " 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  if  I  had  found  you  dead  !  " 

Life  and  love  cut  the  earth  from  their  feet  till 
they  stood  in  that  little  circle  where  there  is  only 
space  for  a  man  and  woman  and  truth. 

Warre  took  Allegra  in  his  arms  and  knew  her 
heart. 

"  If  I  had  found  you  dead  !  "  she  repeated. 

They  laughed  and  wept,  but  she  said  no  more. 
Then  there  was  one  vain  moment  when  Warre 
kissed  her  face  and  said  : 

"  You  are  mine  !  You  are  mine  !  Come  !  Let 
us  go — let  us  leave  all  the  past  behind  us  and  live 
our  own  life  !  I  have  suffered  enough  !  Oh,  come  ! 
You  must  never  leave  me  again.  You  are  mine ! 
you  are  mine  !  let  us  go  !  " 

She  understood  him  too  well  to  say :  "  What  is 
this  you  are  asking  ?" 

And  he  understood  her  too  well  to  besf  her  for- 
giveness. 

It  was  as  though  those  wild  and  foolish  words 
had  never  been  spoken — never  been  heard. 

She  kissed  his  hand  and  drew  away. 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  257 

"  Is  your  carriage  there  ? "  he  said. 

"  I  have  a  cab,"  said  Allegra.  "  I  shall  go  back 
to  Gifford  Street  and  tell  Lady  Ralston  where  I 
have  been." 

She  fastened  her  mantle  at  the  throat,  and 
wrapped  her  lace  scarf  round  her  head,  over  her 
face.  Warre  walked  with  her  to  the  door,  helped 
her  into  the  hansom,  and  watched  it  drive  towards 
Piccadilly. 


258  1'IIE   CODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

AN   EPISODE. 

Simon  himself  went  on  immediately  to  Gifford 
House  to  reassure  Lord  Wickenham  and  Anne.  But 
Anne  was  not  there,  and  Lord  Wickenham's  manner 
was  odd.  Maukin-Fawkes's  false  news  had  been  cor- 
rected ten  minutes  after  he  had  shivered  the  gaiety 
of  every  one  in  the  ball-room.  The  guests  were  all 
talking  in  little  groups.  Mrs.  Lumley-Savage  was 
asking  all  passers-by  whether  they  had  seen  her  hus- 
band. She  was  very  tired,  and  wanted  to  go  home. 
And  where  was  her  friend,  Mrs.  Warre?  People 
were  very  polite  to  her — more  polite  than  she  had 
ever  found  them — and  three  or  four  great  ladies 
called  her  "  My  dear."  The  Duchess  of  Wark  offered 
to  drive  her  .  .  .  anywhere. 

"  But  I  want  my  husband,"  said  the  poor  little 
woman,  becoming  hysterical.  "  Where  is  my  hus- 
band ?     He  knows  I  am  not  strong !  " 

"  It  is  scandalous  !  "  said  Mrs.  Maukin-Fawkes,  in 
cold,  prim  tones.  "  Surely  it  is  mistaken  kindness 
not  to  tell  her." 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  259 

"  I  really  think,"  said  the  Duchess  to  Mrs.  Savage, 
"  that  it  would  be  wiser  not  to  wait  for  him." 

They  hustled  her  into  her  brougham — the  yellow 
brougham  lined  with  satin.  And  her  lace  felt  heavy, 
and  her  four  hundred  guinea  gown  heavier,  and  her 
diamonds  heavier  yet — and  her  heart — so  bare — so 
empty. 

She  tried  to  think  of  the  children — the  three  little 
boys  who  made  her  head  ache,  and  the  little  girl 
who  cried  all  day  from  nerves. 


26o  'IHE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

LORD  WICKENHAM'S  COMMUNICATION  TO  THE  AUTHOR. 

Mrs.  Warre's  elopement  with  Mr.  Lumley- 
Savage  on  the  night  of  my  ball  was  an  event  of  that 
description  which,  while  it  excites  much  remark,  can 
hardly  be  called  a  surprise.  I  do  not  think  that  my 
friend's  wife  was  ever  considered  an  immoral  woman, 
or  a  woman  who  would  hazard  even  the  risk  of  a 
scandal  in  the  cause  of  love,  but  she  was,  for  some 
reason,  never  believed  in.  Savage  had  suddenly 
made  an  enormous  and  secure  fortune.  I  feel  that  I 
do  the  lady  no  injustice  when  I  say  that  his  great 
wealth  alone  led  her  to  the  act,  which,  though  in  our 
judgment  so  singularly  base,  must  have  seemed  to 
her  mercenary  mind  most  prudent.  Warre's  failing 
health  had  long  been  the  secret  care  of  those  who 
knew  and  loved  him.  He  earned  a  large  income, 
but  his  brain  was  its  capital,  and  he  knew — his  wife 
knew — we  all  knew,  that,  at  the  rate  he  worked,  it 
could  not  bear  the  exhausting  demands  of  another 
season.     One  or  two  of  us  felt  also  that  there   was 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  261 

something  more  than  the  anxiety  inseparable  from 
his  profession  in  the  boundless,  ravaging  ardour 
which  consumed  him.  Had  I  not — from  my  knowl- 
edge of  his  character — believed  it  impossible  that  he 
could  be  profoundly  in  love,  I  should  have  said  that 
he  had  either  formed  some  disastrous  attachment,  or 
had  lost — either  by  death  or  for  some  crueller  cause 
— the  true  wife  of  his  existence.  But  as  he  had  al- 
ways confided  to  me  the  secrets  of  his  heart  in  mat- 
ters of  this  nature,  I  certainly  assumed  that  he  was 
satisfied  with  the  companionship  of  Mrs.  Warre,  and 
had  even  a  genuine  affection  for  her.  She  was  beau- 
tiful to  look  at,  and,  in  my  presence,  at  all  events, 
invariably  showed  him  much  devotion.  I  admit  she 
may  have  been  an  accomplished  actress.  Before  his 
marriage,  Warre's  fault  was  a  certain  insincere  sen- 
timentality, which,  though  it  made  him  intimate  with 
the  poets,  kept  him  cold — even  cynical,  in  his  rela- 
tions with  women.  Enamoured  of  an  imaginary 
excellence,  he  disdained  the  real  and  solid  joys  of 
life.  Everything  except  Art  seemed  to  him  gro- 
tesque. Unable  to  find  ideal  beauty,  he  sought  ideal 
ugliness.  lie  could  read  a  ballad  about  love-sick 
lepers  with  pleasure,  yet  it  shocked  him  to  sec  a 
woman's  nose  grow  red  with  weeping.  I  speak  now 
of  his  bachelor  days.  lie  altered.  I  discouraged 
his  engagement  to  Miss  I  )(l;i\v;irc,  hut  when  I  ob- 
served  them    together  after   their  marriage,   1  often 


262  THE   GOnS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

found  myself  wondering  whether  it  had  not  proved, 
on  the  whole,  a  successful  experiment — seeing  that 
neither  of  them  were  persons  of  deep  feeling.  1  am 
telling  you  all  this  to  show  you  how  men  may  be 
deceived  in  appearances,  and  how  much  we  may  be 
mistaken  in  our  estimate  even  of  those  we  know  most 
intimately. 

Warre  bore  his  wife's  infidelity  with  an  absence 
of  resentment  which,  I  must  confess,  struck  me  at 
first  as  pusillanimous.  He  refused  to  divorce  her, 
and  refused  to  discuss  her  conduct.  He  continued 
his  life,  unmoved,  with  a  dogged  and  stubborn  per- 
sistence, which  placed  him  beyond  the  range  of 
criticism,  because  it  seemed  outside  the  pale  of 
what  was  human,  of  what  was  common,  or  even  un- 
common, in  men's  experience.  The  soul  and  the 
manhood  within  him  were  dead.  I  say  it  now  with 
bitter  self-reproach,  but  at  that  period,  I  lost  all  in- 
terest in  him.  He  repelled  me.  I  could  not  under- 
stand him.  He  made  it  clear,  I  thought,  that  he  did 
not  wish  to  be  understood  ;  he  asked  nothing,  so  it 
seemed,  but  to  be  let  alone,  Mrs.  Warre  and  Savage 
went  on  a  yachting  cruise  with  a  party  of  congenial 
friends  around  the  world.  Simon  was  still  a  young 
man,  and  we  all  laboured  to  convince-  him  that, 
if  he  would  but  divorce  his  wife,  he  could  marry 
again.  He  made  his  life  so  much  harder,  so  much 
more   difficult    than  it    need  have    been.      The   law 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  263 

was  made  to  protect  us  from  ourselves  and  from 
each  other  ;  to  redress  grievances,  to  preserve  peace 
and  equity  and  happiness.  It  is  surely  our  own 
fault  if  we  suffer  an  injustice  for  which  both  the 
Church  and  the  state  offer  us  a  remedy.  But  he 
would  listen  with  hopeless  eyes  and  unheeding  ears 
to  all  I  said.  Once  he  reminded  me  that  there  was 
no  child  in  the  question.  If  there  had  been  a  child, 
he  would  have  felt  it  his  duty  to  protect  it  from  such 
a  mother  ;  he  would  have  taken  steps  ...  he  would 
have  fought  a  duel  to  the  death,  but  .  .  .  He  never 
finished  the  sentence. 

At  last,  after  a  blank  and  dreary  interval  of  time, 
he  told  me  that  he  had  undertaken  the  management 
of  a  colonial  hospital  at  a  place  which  I  knew  well 
he  hated,  and  in  a  climate  which  he  knew,  to  a  cer- 
tainty, would  painfully  kill  him.     Then  he  spoke  out. 

"  Wick,"  said  he,  "  I  know  your  kindness,  and 
if  I  had  a  living  heart  I  would  tiiank  you  for  it. 
Now  I  am  going  away  I  feel  I  can  tell  you  some- 
thing which,  had  I  stayed  in  England,  must  have 
ever  remained  a  secret.  I  loved  Allegra.  I  never 
loved  Anne  at  all." 

This  revelation  took  away  my  breath.  I  could 
make  no  answer.  I  had  known  ever  since  the  night 
when  the  false  report  came  of  his  accident  tiiat  Alle- 
gra cared — in  no  merely  childish  measure — for  him. 
The  knowledge  was  a  grief  to  mc,  for  it   was  the 


264  THE   GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

death-warrant  of  my  own  foolish  hope.  She  was  not 
one  to  have  two  loves  in  her  life.  And — even 
though  I  might  have  been  the  gainer  had  she  been 
less  faithful — I  could  not  have  wished  her  to  be  oth- 
erwise. 

"  I  loved  Allegra,"  he  repeated.  "  I  love  her 
always.  But  if  I  were  to  get  my  freedom — if  she 
were  an  older  woman — if  she  had  lived  and  suffered 
and  known  disappointment,  and  worked  folly,  and 
suffered  remorse,  I  should  not  even  then  be  justified 
in  asking  her  to  share  my  life.  I  have  nothing  now 
but  memories  I  may  not  speak  of,  self-doubts  I  dare 
not  own,  a  habit  of  silence  which  I  shall  never  shake 
off.  I  have  seen  the  vision  of  sin  and  corruption ; 
my  eyes  are  seared  with  it.  I  am  a  man  broken  in 
health  and  heart ;  the  hand  of  death  is  upon  me.  I 
can  never  more  feel  either  love  or  sorrow.  I  am 
speaking  truth,  Wick.  Nothing  can  ever  hurt  me 
again." 

I  felt  that  he  was  right.  My  poor  friend  had  so 
completely  and  so  cruelly  severed  himself  from 
every  emotion  in  life,  that  there  was  already  the 
something  forbidding,  unapproachable,  awful  about 
him,  which  we  recognise  in  the  laid-out  body,  even 
of  one  who  was  most  dear  and  familiar  to  us  when 
living. 

He  left  England  that  night.  When  he  said  good- 
bye to  me,  I  knew  that  I  saw  him  for  the  last  time 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM.  265 

on  earth.  His  face  was  already  transparent,  and  the 
glor}'  of  the  incorruptible  shone  through.  He  was 
not  yet  so  dead  but  that  he  looked  wistful  as  the 
train  steamed  from  the  platform.  We  waved  hand- 
kerchiefs ;  his  soon  became  a  speck  in  the  distance — 
and  finally,  nothing. 

And  now  I  must  speak  briefly.  Allegra  rarely 
mentioned  Warre's  name  to  me;  laughing  and  chat- 
ting of  gaieties,  she  pined  away.  I  watched  the 
change  in  her  countenance  week  by  week ;  they 
took  her  to  the  south  of  France.  I  went  there,  too ; 
she  said  I  amused  her.  I  never  once  saw  her  look 
sad,  nor  did  I  ever  hear  her  complain  at  her  illness. 
Indeed,  she  appeared  unconscious  of  it,  and  seemed 
to  think  that  she  was  at  Cannes  because  her  father 
suffered  from  gout.  When,  at  length,  our  distress 
at  her  condition  betrayed  itself,  she  used  to  write 
me  little  notes  in  pencil  to  assure  me  that  although 
her  voice  was  weak,  she  had  a  great  deal  to  say. 
These  letters  were  hard  to  read  ;  I  have  six  of  them. 
I  fancy  that  the  word  Simon  occurs  in  the  last.  One 
evening,  when  I  thought  that  the  end  was  near,  I 
received  word  of  his  ship's  safe  arrival  in  Africa,  and 
of  his  death  on  board  the  vessel.  He  died  in  his 
sleep,  and  they  buried  iiim  at  sea.  The  man  who 
sent  the  news  wrote  like  a  lawyer,  and  1  was  grate- 
ful for  his  curtncss.  I  could  not  have  borne,  at  that 
moment,  very  kind  or  very  graphic  words. 


266  THE    CODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

I,  who  knew  AUcgra's  secret,  feared  that  this 
sorrow  would  do  the  worst.  I  took  counsel  with 
the  Count  and  Lady  Ralston,  and  we  resolved  to 
withhold  the  sad  tidings.  But,  as  I  was  sitting  by 
her  side  the  following  day,  pretending  to  read  while 
she  pretended  to  sleep,  she  startled  me  by  saying  in 
a  whisper: 

"  Do  you  know,  I  have  long  had  a  feeling  that 
Simon  is  dead.  I  am  not  so  lonely  as  I  used  to  be. 
I  can  almost  believe  that  he  is  with  me."  And  she 
wept. 

"  And  if  he  should  be  dead  ?  "  I  asked. 

For  a  moment  she  seemed  to  regain  all  her  sweet 
health  and  vigour. 

"  I  should  get  well,"  she  answered,  "  for  then  I 
should  know  that  he  was  at  rest — that  he  was  happy." 

With  God  and  women  all  things  are  possible.  I 
cannot  explain  Allegra's  strangeness,  but  whatever 
she  said  or  did  always  seemed  right  and  natural. 
Such  was  her  peculiar  force  of  character.  I  forgot 
to  marvel  at  the  mystery  before  me,  and  told  her 
quietly  that  her  foreboding  was  true.  Simon  was 
dead.  They  had  buried  him  at  sea.  Tears  streamed 
down  her  cheeks  while  she  listened  ;  she  held  out 
her  hands  and  clasped — what  looked  to  me — the  air. 

"At  last,"  she  said,  "at  last,  he  is  free.  He  can 
never  be  sorrowful  again.  Oh,  my  very  dearest!  I 
do  not  call  you  back  !" 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM.  267 

Her  religious  faith  was  the  purest  and  most 
beautiful  I  have  ever  known  or  conceived  of.  Her 
belief  in  God  and  the  angels  and  the  other  world 
gave  confidence  and  courage  even  to  those  whose 
lives  were  spent  in  questions,  and  who  could  hope  to 
find  no  answer  to  them  all  in  death.  If  I  should  say 
how  dear  I  held  even  the  privilege  of  seeing  her  it 
might  sound  extravagant.  Many  weeks  passed  be- 
fore she  became  so  much  as  convalescent,  but  she 
lived,  and  still  lives.  I  always  fear  that  there  is  some- 
thing not  unlike  profanity  in  daring  to  love  her  with 
a  man's  love.  I  try  to  feel  it  even  when  I  am  most 
desolate — even  when  I  look  about  me  and  see  other 
men  who  have  wives  and  children  to  love  and  to  be 
loved  bv.  I  am  no  celibate  by  instinct :  I  do  not 
care  much  for  unmarried  people,  or  for  people  who 
have  not,  at  all  events,  a  love  of  family  life — an  idea 
of  home  well  knit  in  their  bones  and  tissue. 

But  so  many  of  us,  like  Warre,  have  noble  ideals, 
and  then,  because  we  cannot  see  them  realised  im- 
mediately, we  accept,  in  a  moment  of  petulance,  the 
lesser  thing.  There  is  a  king's  daughter  for  each 
one  of  us :  let  us  wed  her  or  none  other.  And  so 
with  every  aim  and  hope  in  life.  We  should  do 
nothing — we  should  say  nothing — we  should  content 
ourselves  with  nothing  which  seems  to  fall  below 
the  hijrhcst  we  can  think  ol.  Then  if  we  should  find 
disappointment,  or  should  we  be  deceived,  we  can  at 


268  THE   GODS,  SOME    MORTALS, 

least  say — We  took  thee,  best  and  dearest,  for  the 
best  thou  shouldst  have  been.  But  to  be  fooled, 
knowing  well  that  we  had  chosen  to  be  fooled — 
chosen  the  false  in  mere  impatience  with  our  quest 
of  the  true — that  is  what  really  degrades  us — really 
causes  despair. 

Warre  took  the  lesser  thing.  That  is  the  sum  of 
his  folly.  I  loved  him  well :  his  disposition  had  a 
divine  sweetness.  But  he  was  not  a  man  to  make 
men  strong  or  to  lead  a  woman's  will.  I  trust  I  say 
this  without  jealousy.  But  I  cannot  be  sure.  For  it 
is  true  that  I  envy  him,  although  his  body  is  one 
with  the  sands  of  the  sea,  and  his  grief  was  more 
than  he  could  tell,  and  his  life,  in  men's  judgment,  a 
failure. 


AND   LORD   WICKENHAM. 


269 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

THE   LAST. 

The  reader  who  has  followed  Warre's  story  to 
its  close  will  find  no  cause  for  wonder  in  the  discov- 
ery that  even  Lord  Wickenham  never  completely 
grasped  his  character  or  his  motives.  Simon  never 
spoke  out,  and  he  was  therefore  never  understood. 
And  his  lordship,  although  a  gentleman  to  whose 
honour,  generosity,  and  unselfishness  I  have  never 
found  a  parallel,  was  jealous  of  his  dead  rival.  He 
knew  it,  deplored  it,  struggled  right  valiantlv  against 
it,  but  the  passion  remained.  Yet,  if  he  had  ever 
conquered  this  natural  weakness,  I  think  I  should 
not  have  liked  him  half  so  well.  Allcgra  herself 
once  confessed  to  me  that  she  never  felt  such  affec- 
tion for  him  as  when  he  tried  to  speak  with  fairness 
— and  could  not — of  poor  Warre.  She  was  a  true 
woman. 

Lumlcy-Savage  lived  hut  Icii  months  with  Anne, 
for  he  caught  tvphoifl   fever  and   died,   leaving  his 

vast  fortune  to  his  wife  and   children.     Mrs.  Warre 

18 


270  THE  GODS,  SOME   MORTALS, 

has  gone  on  the  stage,  and,  when  I  last  heard  of 
her,  she  was  playing  the  part  of  Lady  Jane 
Grey,  and  living  under  the  protection  of  a  Wor- 
shipful Cheesemonger.  She  wears  a  mourning  ring 
for  Simon,  and  cries  bitterly  when  his  name  is  men- 
tioned. 

"  My  God  ! "  she  invariably  says,  "  he  was  a  good 
man.  And  I  shall  never  love  any  one  else — never, 
never,  never  love  any  one  else  !  " 

And  this  depresses  the  Worshipful  Cheesemon- 
ger. 

As  I  write  these  last  words,  a  letter  reaches  me 
from  AUegra. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  she  says,  "  Wick  and  I  are  of 
course  deeply  interested  to  hear  of  this  romance  you 
are  weaving  about  gods  and  mortals.  We  want  you, 
however,  to  write  a  biography  of  Simon  Warre. 
Let  it  be  a  truthful  history.  Do  not  tell  his  story 
the  way  it  did  not  happen.  You  knew  him  as  none 
of  us  knew  him.  But  I  loved  him  the  best.  I  did— 
indeed,  I  did  ! 

"  Yours  ever  affectionately, 

"  Allegra  Wickenham." 

1  believe  that  she  loved  him  the  best— that  she 
loves   him   the   best    still.      And    the    words    Lord 


AND    LORD   WICKENHAM. 


271 


Wickenham  wrote  me  two  years  ago  would  be  his 
words  to-day : 

"  I  envy  him,  although  his  body  is  one  with  the 
sands  of  the  sea,  and  his  grief  was  more  than  he 
could  tell,  and  his  life,  in  men's  judgment,  a  failure." 


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which  il  evinces,  by  the  wide  and  generous  sympathies  of  its  author,  and  no  less  by 
her  remarkable  literary  ability."  — ///<•  Speaker. 

New  York  :   \).  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avcnua. 


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r^ENEFITS  FORGOT.     By  Wolcott  Balestier, 

J-^     author  of  "  Reflcy,"  "  A  Common  Story,"  etc.     i2mo.     Cloth, 
$1.50. 

"  A  credit  to  American  literature  and  a  monument  to  the  memory  of  the  author." 
— Boston  Beacon. 

"  The  author  pl.xccs  his  reader  at  the  very  pulse  of  the  human  machine  when  that 
machine  is  throbbing  most  tumultuously."— Zowi/fw  Clironiclc. 

"  The  author  manages  a  difficult  scene  in  a  masterly  way,  and  his  style  is  brilliant 
and  finished."— i'«^»i'c  Courier. 

"  An  ambitious  work.  .  .  .  The  author's  style  is  clear  and  graceful." — New  York 
Times. 

"  Mr.  Balestier  has  done  some  excellent  literary  work,  but  we  have  no  hesitation  in 
pronouncing  this,  his  latest  work,  by  far  his  best." — Boston  Advertiser. 

r^  UFFELS.   By  Edward  Eggleston,  author  of  "  The 
-i--^     Faith  Doctor,"  "  Roxy,"    "  The    Hoosier   Schoolmaster,"  etc. 
i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"A  collection  of  stories  each  of  which  is  thoroughly  characteristic  of  Dr.  Eggles- 
ton at  his  best." — Baltimore  Ainerican. 

"  Destined  to  become  very  popular.  The  stories  are  of  infinite  variety.  All  are 
pleasing,  even  fascin.iting,  studies  of  the  character,  lives,  and  manners  of  the  periods 
with  which  they  deal." — Fhiladeiphia  Item. 

'J^HE  FAITH  DOCTOR.     By  Edward  Eggleston, 
-»         author  of  "  The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster,"  "  The  Circuit  Rider," 
etc.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 
"One  o(  the  novels  of  the  decade." — Rochester  Union  and  Advertiser. 
"  The  author  of  '  The  Hoosier   Schoolmasler '  has  enhanced  his  reputation  by  this 
beautiful  and  touchini;  study  of  the  character  of  a  girl   to  love  whom  proved  a  liberal 
education  to  both  of  her  admirers." — London  Athenietim. 

'"The  Faith  Doctor'  is  worth  reading  for  its  style,  its  wit,  and  its  humor,  and  not 
less,  we  may  add,  for  its  pathos." — London  Spectator. 

"  Much  skill  is  shown  by  the  author  in  making  these  'fads'  the  basis  of  a  novel  of 
great  interest.  .  .  .  One  who  tries  to  keep  in  the  current  of  good  novel-reading  must 
certainly  find  time  to  read  '  The  Faith  Doctor.'  " — Buffalo  Commercial. 


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tle, author  of  "  Consequences."    Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  The  stories  will  be  welcomed  with  a  sense  of  refreshing  pungency  by  readers 
v;ho  have  been  cloyed  by  a  too  long  succession  of  insipid  sweetness  and  familiar 
incident" — London  A  thcnceum. 

"The  author  is  gifted  with  a  lively  fancy,  and  the  clever  plots  he  h.is  devised  gain 
greatly  in  interest,  thanks  to  the  unfamihar  surroundings  in  which  the  action  for  the 
most  part  takes  place." — London  Literary  World. 

"  Fight  stories,  all  exhibiting  notable  originality  in  conception  and  mastery  of  art, 
the  first  two  illustrating  them  best.  They  add  a  dramatic  power  that  makes  them 
masterpieces.  Both  belong  to  the  period  when  fencing  was  most  skillful,  and  illustrate 
its  practice." — Boston  Globe. 

New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO..  12  Fifth  Avenue, 


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Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.25. 

"The  vividly  drawn  characters  of  this  interesting  and  thoughtful  novel  are  the 
work  of  a  man  gifted  with  genius.  .  .  .  We  warmly  acknowledge  that  he  has  given  us 
a  rare  and  exquisite  literary  gem." — Baltimore  American. 

"  Mr.  Pendleton  shows  power  of  invention  and  skill  in  dramatic  arrangement." — 
New  \'ork  Tribune. 

/J     VIRGINIA    INHERITANCE.      By  Edmund 
-*^       Pendleton,  author  of  "  A  Conventional  Bohemian,"   "  One 
Woman's  Way,"  etc.     i2mo.     Paper,  50  cent.s  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  There  is  a  warm  sympathy  between  the  author  and  his  characters  and  scenes  which 
communicates  itselt  to  the  reader." — Sew  York  Evening  Post. 

"  The  author  evidently  writes  from  careful  observation." — North  A  merican  Review. 

"  Will  be  appreciated  by  those  who  like  a  delicate  but  vigorous  style  and  a  keen 
sense  of  humor  joined  to  a  rare  gift  uf  poitT!iiiurc."—£os/on  '1  ranscript. 


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ROM  DUSK  TO  DAWN.  By  Katharine 
Pearson  Woods,  author  of  "  Metzerott,  Shoemaker."  i2mo. 
Cloth,  S1.25. 

"  Rarely,  indeed,  does  an  author  attain  to  such  wide  prominence  in  so  short  a  time 
as  did  Katharine  Pearson  Woods  on  the  appearance  of  her  somewhat  socialistic  novel 
called  '  Metzerott,  Shoemaker.'  That  story,  however,  with  all  its  absorbing  power, 
gave  only  the  faintest  evidence  of  the  real  str-ngth  that  has  hitherto  remained  latent, 
but  which  is  now  so  wonderfully  developed  in  her  latest  story,  '  From  Dusk  to  Dawn.'  " 
— Baltimore  American. 

"  The  author  has  not  only  successfully  interwoven  discussion  upon  religion  and  the 
occult  sciences,  but  she  has  handled  them  throughout  in  a  masterly  manner,  predicating 
her  entire  familiarity  with  them." — Boston  Commercial  Bulletin. 

"  If  a  novel  may  be  called  orthodox,  this  book  is  entitled  to  come  under  that 
classification." — San  Francisco  Call. 


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OOTSTEPS   OF   FATE.     By  Louis  Couperus, 

author  of  "  Eline  Vere."  Translated  from  the  Dutch  by  Clara 
Bell.  With  an  Introduction  by  Edmund  Gosse.  Holland 
Fiction  Scries.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $l.OO. 

"  It  i*  a  very  remarkable  book,  and  can  not  fail  to  m.ike  a  profound  impression  by 
its  strength  and  originality.  ...  Its  int-rest  is  inicnsc,  and  the  tragcd>  with  whicli  it 
do.'tcs  is  depicted  with  remarkable  gnice  and  passion." — Boston  Haturday  Evening 
Gazette. 

"  A  rcmark.ible  study  of  the  theory  of  fatalism  and  its  effect  upon  the  Iniman  mind, 
of  the  sophistical  reasoning  10  which  it  leads,  and  of  the  absolute  iniliffcicnc-  10  the 
fale  ofoilicrs  which  it  succeeds  in  esiahlishing.  If  the  work  of  the  Dutch  Strnsilivists, 
2.1  K^lmunil  Gosse  calls  them  in  his  preface,  is  maintained  on  such  a  level  as  this,  their 
translation  into  Knglish  is  a  distinct  gain." — '1  he  Critic. 


New  Vork  :   I).  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


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FRIEND  OF  THE  QUEEN.  (Marie  Antoinette 
—Count  de  Fersen.)  By  Paul  Gaulot.  \Vith  Two  Por- 
traits.    i2mo.     Cloth,  $2.00. 

"M.  Gaulot  deserves  thanks  for  presenting  tlic  personal  history  of  Count  Fersen 
in  a  manner  so  evidently  candid  and  unhiased." — Fhiladelphia  Bnllctin. 

"  Tliere  are  some  characters  in  history  of  whom  we  never  seem  to  grow  tired  Of 
no  one  is  this  so  much  the  case  as  ot  the  beautiful  Marie  Antoinette,  and  of  that  life 
which  is  at  once  so  eventful  and  so  tragic.  ...  In  this  work  we  have  much  that  up 
to  the  present  time  has  been  only  va>;uely  known." — I'kiladelphia  Press. 

"  A  historical  volume  that  will  be  eagerly  read." — New  York  Observer. 

"  One  of  those  captivating  recitals  of  the  romance  of  truth  which  are  the  gilding  ot 
the  pill  of  history." — London  Daily  News. 

"  It  tells  with  new  and  authentic  details  the  romantic  stnrj-  of  Count  Fersen's  (the 
friend  of  the  Queen)  devotion  to  Marie  Antoinette,  of  hi^  share  in  the  celebrated  flight 
to  Varennes,  and  in  many  other  well-known  episodes  of  the  unhappy  Queen's  life." — 
London  Times. 

"  It  the  book  had  no  more  recommendation  than  the  mere  fact  that  Marie  Antoinette 
and  Count  Fersen  are  rescued  at  last  from  the  voluminous  and  contradictory  repre- 
sentations with  which  the  literature  of  that  period  abounds,  it  would  be  enough  com- 
peni.ition  to  any  readier  to  become  acquainted  with  the  true  delineations  of  two  of  the 
most  romantically  tragic  personalities.  "^2)yj/^«  Globe. 

"One  of  the  most  interesting  volumes  of  recent  publication,  and  sure  to  find  its  place 
among  the  most  noteworthy  of  historical  novels."— i)Vi-.£)«  Tunes. 

7^HE  ROMANCE  OF  AN  EMPRESS.  Caiherint- 
II,  of  Russia.  By  K.  Waliszewski.  With  Portrait.  121110. 
Cloth,  $2.00. 

"  Of  Catharine's  marvelous  career  we  have  in  this  volume  a  sympathetic,  learned, 
and  picturesque  narrative.  No  royal  career,  not  even  of  some  of  the  Roman  or  papal 
ones,  has  better  shown  us  how  truth  can  be  stranger  than  fiction." — New  York  Times. 

"  A  striking  and  able  work,  deserving  of  the  highest  praise." — Philadelphia  Ledger, 

"The  book  is  well  called  a  romance,  for,  .-dthough  no  legends  are  admitted  in  it. 
and  the  author  has  been  at  pains  to  present  nothing  but  verified  facts,  the  actual  career 
of  the  subject  was  so  abnormal  and  sensational  as  to  seem  to  belong  to  fiction." — New 
York  Sun. 

"A  dignified,  handsome,  indeed  superb  volume,  and  well  worth  careful  reading." 
— Chicago  Herald. 

"  It  is  a  most  wonderful  story,  charmingly  told,  with  new  material  to  siistain  it,  and 
a  breadth  and  temperance  and  consideration  that  go  far  to  soften  one's  estimate  of  one 
of  the  most  extraordinary  women  of  history." — .Vew  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  A  romance  in  which  fiction  finds  no  place ;  a  charming  narrative  wherein  the 
author  fearlessly  presents  the  results  of  whal  has  been  obviously  a  thorough  and  im- 
partial investigation  " — Philadelphia  Press. 

"  The  book  makes  the  best  of  reading,  because  it  is  written  without  fear  or  favor. 
.  .  .  The  volume  is  exccdingly  suggestive,  and  gives  to  the  gener.il  reader  a  plain, 
blunt,  string,  and  somewhat  prejudiced  but  still  healthy  view  of  one  of  the  greatest 
women  of  whom  history  bears  record."— A^^w  York  Herald. 

"  The  perusal  of  such  a  book  can  not  fall  to  add  to  that  breidth  of  view  which  is 
so  essential  to  the  student  of  universal  history." — Philadelphia  bulletin. 


New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


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pA  UL  AND  VIRGINIA.    By  Bernardin  de  Saint- 
■^         Pierre.     With  a  Biographical  Sketch,  and  numerous  Illustra- 
tions by  Maurice  Leloir.     Svo.     Cloth,  gilt  top,  uniform  with 
"  Picciola,"  "  The  Story  of  Colette,"  and  "  An  Attic  Philosopher 
in  Paris."     $1.50. 
It  is  believed  that  this  standard  edition  of  "  Paul  and  Virginia  "  with  Leloir's  charm- 
ing illustrations  will  prove  a  most  acceptable  addition  to  the  series  of  illustrated  foreign 
classics  in  which  D.  Appleton  &  Co.  have  published  "The  Story  of  Colette,"   "An 
Attic   Philosopher  in   Paris,  and  "  Picciola."     No  more  sympathetic  illustrator  than 
Leloir  could  be  found,  and  his  treatment  of  this  masterpiece  of  French  literature  invests 
it  with  a  peculiar  value. 


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ICCIOLA.     By  X.  B.  Saintine.     With  130  Illustra- 
tions by  J.  F.   GuELDRY.     Svo.     Cloth,  gilt  top,  S1.50. 

"Saintine's  'Picciola,'  the  pathetic  tale  of  the  prisoner  who  raised  a  flower  between 
the  cracks  of  the  flagging  of  his  dungeon,  has  parsed  definitely  into  the  list  of  classic 
books.  ...  It  has  never  been  more  beautifully  housed  than  in  this  editiun,  wilh  its  fine 
typography,  binding,  and  sympathetic  illustrations."— /'////(K/c/^/ji/rt   1  tlvgraph. 

"  The  binding  is  both  uniqie  and  tasteful,  and  the  book  commends  itself  strongly  ai 
one  that  should  meet  with  general  favor  in  the  season  of  gift-making." — Boston  Satur- 
day Evening  Gazette. 

".Most  beautiful  in  it«  clear  type,  cream-laid  paper,  many  attractive  illustrations, 
and  holiday  binding." — New  York  Observer. 


A 


N  ATTIC  PHIIOSOPHER  IN  PARIS ;  or,  A 
Peep  at  the  World  from  a  Garret.  Being  the  Journal  of  a 
Happy  Man,  By  E.mii.e  Souvestre.  With  numerous  Illustra- 
tions.    Svo.     Cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.50. 

"  A  suitable  holiday  gift  for  a  friend  who  appreciates  refined  literature." — Boston 
Times. 

"The  influence  of  the  book  is  wholly  good.  The  volume  is  a  particularly  hand- 
fomc  one." — I'hitaiielphia  1  clegrapli. 

"It  is  a  classic.  It  has  found  an  appropriate  reliquary.  Faithfully  translated, 
ch.irmingly  illustrated  by  J'.-.-in  Claurle  with  full  paye  pictuics,  vignettes  in  the  text,  and 
head  and  tail  pieces,  printcl  in  graceful  type  on  h.uidsome  paper,  and  boimil  with  an 
art  worthy  of  .Matthews,  in  half-clnth,  ornamented  on  the  cuver,  it  is  an  exemplary  book, 
fit  to  be  '  a  treasure  for  aye.'  " — New   York  Times. 

piIE  STORY  OF  COLETTE.     A  new  large-paper 
-*        edition.     With  36  Illustrations.     Svo.     Cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.50. 

"One  of  the  handsomest  of  the  books  of  fiction  for  the  holiday  season." — VhilaJel- 
phia  Hiilletin. 

"  One  of  the  gems  of  the  season.  .  .  .  It  is  the  story  of  the  life  of  young  womanhood 
in  France,  drimatic.illy  told,  with  the  light  and  shade  ami  coloruig  of  the  g<  iiuinc 
ariijt,  and  i%  utterly  free  from  that  which  mar',  too  many  French  novels.  In  its  literary 
finish  it  is  well  nigli  perfect,  indicating  the  hand  cf  the  master." — Boston  'J ravtlltr. 

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HE   GREEN  CARNATION. 


M, 


The    "Decadent"  of  Kmjlish  society  has  never  been  so  cleverly  sketched, 
and  his  comments  upon  the  literature  and  art  of  the  day  will  be  found  as  anuising 
as  they  are  maliciously  witty.      Wc  have  had  no  recent  fictmn  so  thorouglily  "  up   to 
date.' 

/JBANDONING  AN   ADOPTED  FARM.       By 
-*-*     Kate  S.vnborn,  author  of  "Adopting  an  Abandoned  Farm,"  etc. 

As  a  promoter  of  good  spirits,  a  contributor  to  the  gayety  of  nations,  Miss  Kate 
Sanborn  has  gained  a  most  enviable  place  among  the  writers  of  the  day. 

RS.    LIMBER'S   RAFFLE ;  or,  A  Church  Fair 

and  its  Victims.     By  William  Allen  Butler. 

This  brilliant  little  satire,  by  the  author  of  "  Nothing  to  Wear,"  appears  now  under 
his  name,  in  a  revised  and  enlarged  form. 

^HE  PURPLE  LIGHT  OF  LOVE.     By  Henry 
-*        GOELET  McVlCKAR,  author  of  "  A  Precious  Trio,"  etc. 

"  A  novel  that  holds  the  attention  of  the  reader  with  its  clever  sketches  of  charac- 
ter."— Hoston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

y^HE    TRANSLATION    OF    A    SAVAGE.      By 
-*       Gilbert  Parker. 

"  Unique  in  plot  and  subject,  and  holds  the  interest  from  the  first  page  to  the  last." 
— Detroit  Free  I'ress. 

^HE    FAIENCE     VIOLLN.       By   Champfleury. 

J.  "  The  style  is  happy  throughout,  the  humorous  parts  being  well  calculated 

to  bring  smiles,  while  we  can  hardly  restrain  our  tears  when  the  poor  enthusiast 
goes  to  excesses  that  have  a  touch  of  pathos." — Albany  Times-Union. 

y^RUE  RICHES.     By  Francois  Coppee. 

-*  "  Delicate  as  an  apple    blossom,  with  its  limp  cover  of  pale  green  and  its 

stalk  of  golden-rod,  is  this  little  volume  containing  two  stories  by  Fran9ois  Cop- 
p^.e  The  tales  are  charmingly  told,  and  their  setting  is  an  artistic  delight."— /Vi//««V/- 
phia  Bulletin. 

TRUTHFUL     WOMAN    IN    SOUTHERN 
CALIFORNIA.     By  Kate  Sanborn. 

"The  veracious  writer  considers  the  pros  of  the  '  glorious  climate'  of  California, 
and  then  she  gives  the  cnns.  .  .  .  The  book  is  sprightly  and  amiably  entertaining.  The 
descriptions  have  the  true  Sanborn  touch  of  vitality  and  humor." — Philadelphia  Ledger. 

BORDER     LEANDER.     By    Howard    Seelv, 
author  of  "A  Nymph  of  the  West,"  etc. 

"  We  confess  to  a  great  liking  for  the  tale  Mr.  Seely  tellg  .  .  .  There  are  pecks  of 
trouble  ere  the  devoted  lovers  secure  the  tying  of  their  love  knot,  and  Mr.  Seely  de- 
scribes them  all  with  a  Texan  flavor  that  is  refreshing." — A'.  V.  'Jimes. 


A 


A 


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HANDY  VOLUMES  OF   FICTION. 

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OURMALIN'S      TIME     CHEQUES.       By   F. 

Anstey,  author  of  "  Vice  Versa,"  "  The  Giant's  Robe,"  etc. 

Mr.  Anstey  has  done  nothing  more  original  or  fantastic  with  more  success." — 
The  Nation. 

pROM    SHADOW     TO     SUNLIGHT      By   the 
-*-         Marquis  of  Lorne. 

"  In  these  days  of  princely  criticism— that  is  to  say,  criticism  of  princes — it  is  re- 
freshing to  meet  a  really  good  bit  of  aristocratic  literary  work." — Chicago  Tribune. 

/I DOTTING    AN   ABANDONED    FARM.      By 
•^^    Kate  Sanborn. 

"  A  sunny,  pungent,  humorous  sketch." — Chicago  Times. 

N  THE  LAKE  OF  L  UCERNE,  arid  other  Stories. 
Hy  Beatrice  Wihtbv,  author  of  "A  Matter  of  Skill,"  "The 
Awakening  of  Mary  Fenwick,"  etc. 

"Six  short  stories  carefully  and  conscientiously  finished,  and  told  with  the  graceful 
ease  of  the  practiced  raconteur." — Literary  Digest. 

PEOPLE  AT  PISGAH.     By  Edwin  W.  Sanborn. 

-»  "  A  most  amusing  extravaganza." — Tlu  Critic. 

R.    FORTNER'S    MARITAL    CLAIMS,    and 

other  .Stories.      By   RICHARD   MALCOLM  JOHNSTON. 

"  When  the  List  story  is  finished   we  feel,  in   imitation  of  Oliver  Twist,  like  asking 
for  more." — I'ublic  Opinion. 

pRAMERCY  PARK.      A  Story  of  New  York.     By 
^^     John  Seymour  Wood,  author  of  "  An  Old  Beau,"  etc. 

"  A  realistic  story  of  New  York  life,  vividly  drawn,  full  of  brilliant  sketches."— 5m- 
ton  Advertiser. 


o 


M 


A 


A 


TALE    OF    TWENTY-FIVE    HOURS.      By 
Branuer  Matthews  and  George  H.  Jessop. 

"The  reader  finds  himself  in  the  midst  nf tragedy  ;  but  it  is  tragedy  ending  in 
comedy.     'I'he  story  is  exceptionally  well  told." — Boston  'Traveller. 

LITTLE  NORSK ;  or,    OF  Pap's  Flaxen.      By 
Hamlin  Garland,  author  of  "  Main  Traveled  Roads,"  etc. 

"  There  is  nothing  in  story  tcllintc  lilcrature  to  excel  the  naturalness,  pathos,  hu- 
mor, and  homelike  interest  with  which  the  little  heroine's  development  is  traced."— 
Brooklyn  l:agle.  

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HE  THREE  MUSKETEERS.     By  Alexandre 

DfMAS.  An  Edition  de  luxe  (limited  to  750  copies),  with  250 
Illustrations  by  Maurice  Leloir.  In  two  volumes.  Royal  8vo. 
Buckram,  with  specially  designed  cover.     $12,00. 


By  arrangement  with  the  French 
publishers,  Messrs.  D.  Appleton 
&  Company  have  secured  the 
American  rights  for  this,  the 
finest  edition  of  Dumas's  im- 
mortal romance  which  has 
been  published.  The  illus- 
trations are  carefully  printed 
from  the  original  blocks,  and 
this  edition  therefore  has  an 
unapproachable  distinction 
in  point  of  pictorial  quality. 


The  translation  has  been  scrupu- 
lously revised,  and  every  effort  has 
been  made  to  present  a  perfect  edition 
of  Dumas's  masterpiece. 

"  Such  a  book  lends  itself  to  the  draughtsman's  art,  and  both  requires 
and  rewards  decoration.  But  it  must  be  decoration  of  the  best ;  and  it  has 
waited  long.  At  length,  however — I  have  it  before  me  now — an  edition  has 
been  prepared  which  should  satisfy  both  the  lovers  of  black  and  white  and 
the  lovers  of  picturesque  fiction.  ...  It  is  scarcely  too  much  to  say  that 
were  Alexandre  Dumas  alive  to-day,  to  see  this  latest  form  of  his  greatest 
work — first  published  exactly  fifty  years  ago — he  who  loved  the  sumptuous 
with  an  almost  tropical  fervor,  and  built  a  grand  theater  for  the  production 
of  his  own  dramas,  would  weep  tears  of  joy  over  his  offspring." — Stanlry 
J.  Weyman,  in  The  Book  Buyer. 


New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

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